


From the Queen of England to the Hounds of Hell

by hollycomb



Category: South Park
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 170,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - Ten years after the execution of Terrance and Phillip, the war with Canada has not ended. Stan and most of Kyle's friends are planning to join the army after high school graduation, bound to be drafted anyway. Kyle doesn't believe in the war, but he's not willing to let Stan go without him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I guess the most important thing to note is that this is a pretty sad story. Characters die, and most of them don't get happy endings. But it's also a romance, so, you know. Some characters do okay.
> 
> Also, it would be pretty offensive and ridiculous to try to imagine about how the world would react to a war on Canada based on American children using bad language, in terms of which allies those countries would or wouldn't have, so I'm leaving a lot of the political details of the war intentionally vague. I want to focus on the home front and how the war has changed South Park and the characters who live there.
> 
> I've been thinking about (talking about, too...) this project for a while now, and I'm really excited! I hope you guys will enjoy it. I'm also pretty unsure about some of this, so feedback would really be welcome.
> 
> Many thanks to azul_bleu and effingbirds for reading drafts of this for me and giving me feedback!

It was October and just starting to snow outside when the counselor came to the twelfth grade classroom door for Kyle. Like it had been when they were kids, high school was just one room per grade, something that would not have been true without the war. Most of the boys were getting too big for the desks, their knees pressed to the undersides. Most of them were getting too big for South Park, or any place other than a battlefield.

Kyle couldn't really hear the counselor speak, because when he knew something bad was coming he tended to hear things as if from behind mottled glass, all the information that tried to enter through his ears fuzzy and blurred. He'd been near deaf for that whole horrible week after Montreal, when the few survivors from the battalion from South Park returned, Kyle's father among them, Stan's father not. Kyle looked at Stan as he crossed the front of the classroom, everyone staring. Stan flinched as if he was thinking about getting up, and Kyle looked away so that he wouldn't. Kyle was the only one who had been called. He hadn't heard it so much as felt it burrowing into his chest, an inevitable thing, the long shadow of something that was already happening, already over.

Jimbo was out in the hall like always, but he wasn't in his chair reading the paper. He was standing, looking fretful, holding his gun across his chest. Kyle's father was there, red-eyed, Ned silent at his side. Jimbo and Ned had volunteered as personal guards for the Broflovski family after the death threats against Kyle's mother started. His mother had a whole fleet of security people who traveled with her, specially trained, and Kyle knew with sick certainty he was about to be told that they'd failed.

"What?" he said, harshly, wanting to hate his father for crying. Kyle's mother had been in the middle of a month-long speaking engagement tour, rallying troops around the country. It was dangerous, but she was committed.

"Let's go to my office," the counselor said. She'd shut the classroom door behind her, but Kyle could feel everyone listening.

"Kyle," Gerald said, his voice breaking.

"Don't tell me," Kyle said. "Don't say it. I know. You don't have to say it."

He didn't cry until they were in the car on the way home, because he didn't want to go home, not if his mother was never going to be there again. Gerald was sniffling beside him, holding his hand, and Kyle still felt furious with him for irrational reasons that he couldn't even pinpoint. Jimbo was driving, and Ned was in the passenger seat.

"Goddamn rebels," Jimbo said. "We'll get 'em Kyle." He said so as if he and Ned would go after them himself. "Don't you worry about that."

"I'm glad the power's out," Kyle said, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. They'd had rolling blackouts since the second year of the war, and this one had gone for three days already.

"Glad?" Jimbo said. "How come?"

"Because they'll be reporting on it," Gerald said before Kyle could. "On TV, on the radio." He squeezed Kyle's hand. "I'm glad, too," he said. "So glad about that, for you boys."

Ike was downstairs when they walked through the door, which was dangerous even when the house was empty, but Kyle didn't say anything. He was sitting on the bottom step in the foyer, hands wrapped around his knees. He didn't rise when Kyle and his father came in, and didn't look at them. It seemed pointed, as if they were being blamed for something. Kyle sat beside Ike and put his arms around him, absorbing his quick, angry breaths. Jimbo and Ned had remained outside, guarding the front door. More guards would come now, people they didn't know. Ike would have to be more careful.

"Do you think she was tortured?" Ike asked when their father left the room, mumbling about tea.

"No," Kyle said, though he did.

"Are they bringing her body back?"

"I don't know," Kyle said. Probably not, he thought. He squeezed Ike's shoulders, and Ike shrugged him off angrily.

"Whatever," he said, standing. "It doesn't matter. She never came to see me."

"Ike." Kyle closed his eyes. He could hear his father weeping in the kitchen, gasping for breath. "It was too dangerous for her to be here, most of the time. Dangerous for you."

"I wish they had just let them intern me," Ike said. It was a familiar refrain lately, and it made Kyle's chest ache, because sometimes he wondered if they hadn't just interned Ike themselves.

"Don't make this any harder for Dad," Kyle said.

"Will there be a funeral?" Ike asked, deflating a little.

"Of course," Kyle said. "The whole town will come." The thought exhausted him. He wasn't sure what to do about his father – go in there and comfort him? Would he be embarrassed? Stan had been attached to his grieving mother's hip for a couple of years after Randy died, but it was different with mothers.

Stan showed up just fifteen minutes later, and Kyle herded Ike upstairs, because he could hear other voices on the doorstep. He thought it might be Sharon and Shelly, but as he pulled the door open he realized he should have expected Wendy. Kenny and Cartman were there, too. Kyle was surprised not to see Butters, though he supposed Butters wouldn't have been up for cutting class.

"Dude," Stan said, stepping forward to grab him. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I tried to come alone."

"It's okay." Kyle put his arms around Stan and held on, closing his eyes to block out the others. He had temporary clearance to be awkward and greedy, so he rested his forehead against Stan's neck and didn't let go of him, not even when Cartman started clearing his throat. Increasingly, Kyle had been feeling like this, and it was stronger than ever when he pulled back to look into Stan's eyes: _I wish it could be just me and you._

"I'm so sorry, Kyle," Wendy said, though he still wasn't looking at her. Stan's hands were on his hips, resting there lightly. Kyle dragged his eyes away from Stan's to glance at the others.

"It sucks," Kenny said. His father and brother had been killed years ago, and it had made him harder, quieter, and more determined to take care of his mother and sister. He had two jobs and hadn't been to school since he was fifteen. He talked constantly about wanting to join the army.

"Sorry for your loss," Cartman said, stiffly. Kyle wasn't sure what he was doing there, except that he always tagged along. He'd stopped caring about Cartman's schemes and motivations years ago. He mostly felt sorry for Cartman, whose mother had been entertaining male company for cash since the third year of the war.

"Come in," Kyle said, stepping away to let them through. He walked into the living room and they followed. "I think my dad was making tea," he said.

"Don't worry about serving us anything, dude," Stan said. He sat beside Kyle on the couch and tucked an arm around him. "Are you – has it hit you yet?" Stan asked. He knew plenty about the stages of grief. Kyle shrugged.

"Not really," he said. "I hadn't seen her in a month. You know?"

"These anti-war groups are disgusting hypocrites," Wendy said. She was truly anti-war, a pacifist, and Kyle knew she'd hated his mother. Her sanctimonious attitude about the cost of war sometimes made Kyle want to tell her that her boyfriend planned to join the army as soon as he graduated in May. All he could do was hope that Wendy would browbeat the desire to serve out of Stan. If she couldn't, Kyle would go with him. He couldn't imagine any hell worse than South Park without Stan.

His friends stayed for tea, which Kyle insisted on serving. He liked to have something to do, and even made a plate of crackers and some bad cheddar cheese that had come with their rations that week. Cartman ate most of it himself, getting crumbs on the easy chair that he was massively occupying.

"Just a one more month," Kenny said. "And I can finally start firing on these sons of b's."

"Not to be disrespectful," Wendy said – both of her parents were still alive, volunteering for the Red Cross, which she planned to do after graduating – "But wouldn't you serve your family better by staying in South Park and taking care of your mother and sister? Instead of getting yourself killed while you're seeking revenge?"

"It doesn't matter if I die," Kenny said, and he smiled in a worrying way. "That's the best part."

"Dude, shut up," Stan said, and Kyle wasn't sure if he was being defensive on behalf of Kyle's dead mother or telling Kenny that his life had more value than that.

"What will your mom and Karen do when you join the army?" Kyle asked.

"I'll figure something out," Kenny said. "You need a housekeeper or two?"

"I don't think we could afford that," Kyle said, though he actually had no idea how much money his mother had made doing public appearances and television interviews. His parents were still frugal; they doled out rations carefully, but Kyle had always assumed that part of that was the desire to set a principled example.

"Your sister could come clean my house," Cartman said.

"No," Kenny said. "I got nothing against your mom, dude, but I don't want Karen anywhere near there."

"Why not?" Cartman asked, glowering. "You think you're so above us? Go ahead and storm the gee-dee border, Kenny. We'll see how long it takes for your mom to come crawling to mine for a job."

"Please, you guys," Wendy said, holding out her hand when Kenny started to rise from the sofa. "We're here for Kyle."

"It's okay," Kyle said. "Just ignore me. I don't feel like talking."

Stan's arm tightened around his waist as he said so, and Kyle looked over at him. His eyes were wet.

"At least I'm not too much of a coward to join up," Kenny said to Cartman, who scoffed.

"We're all gonna get drafted, anyway," Cartman said. "Only a redneck moron would volunteer to die before they force him to."

"Hey, fuck you!" Stan said, his hand clenching on Kyle's side when his v-chip fired. "Only a fatherless waste of life would say that."

"Guys!" Wendy said. She sighed. "Sorry, Kyle."

"It's okay, really," Kyle said, annoyed by her more than any of the others. He wanted to curl up against Stan and close his eyes, maybe sleep. "Can you stay over?" he asked, muttering this while the other three continued to snap at each other.

"Yeah, dude, of course," Stan said. "Hey," he said, reaching over to touch Wendy's leg. "Can you tell my mom that I'm staying over here tonight?"

"Sure, sweetie," she said. She kissed Stan's cheek and stood. "I'll get these guys out of here," she said to Kyle, gesturing to Kenny and Cartman, who were possibly on the verge of coming to blows, leaning toward each other and spitting insults. "And I'm gonna make a casserole," she added as she herded them toward the door. "I'll bring it over tonight."

"You can bring it tomorrow," Kyle said. Wendy's face fell slightly, but she nodded.

"Okay," she said. "Just – I'm right down the street if you guys need anything."

"I know," Kyle said, and he almost regretted the bitchiness of his tone.

"Sorry," Stan said when they were gone. "I told them you wouldn't want the whole gang over, but Wendy said—"

"It's okay," Kyle said. He flopped onto Stan, putting his head on Stan's shoulder. "I know how they are. Just – don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere, dude," Stan said. He cupped his hand around Kyle's head, his fingers digging in between his curls. Kyle kept his eyes closed, wishing he had the balls to tell Stan what he'd really meant: Don't join the army, don't go. "Where's Ike?" Stan asked.

"Upstairs," Kyle said. "He's angry. My dad was crying, before. I guess he's in his room now. Should I go talk to him? I don't know what to do, man. I don't even know where to start."

"You don't have to start anywhere," Stan said. "You just found out. Give yourself some time to let it sink in."

"I can't," Kyle said. "I'm always going to feel like we're waiting for her to get back from that trip, or some other trip. God, I hope the power stays out for a week. I don't want to see anything about this on the news. But they'll be talking about it for months – years."

"Here," Stan said, picking up one of the few crackers Cartman hadn't consumed. He brought it to Kyle's lips. "Eat something."

"Why?" Kyle asked, laughing.

"I don't know," Stan said. "This is what I did for my mom when my dad died. I made sure she ate."

Kyle ate the cracker out of Stan's hand. He felt better as he chewed it, and feeling better made him cry.

News vans arrived before the security forces did. They parked in the driveway of an empty house across the street, but no reporters came to the door that first night. Stan was enraged by the presence of the vans, pacing around Kyle's room and peeking through the blinds every half hour or so, cursing them when he saw that they were still out there.

"Dude, ignore them," Kyle said. "They're just doing their jobs."

"Your dad's in no shape to talk to them," Stan said. They'd had something resembling dinner with Gerald and Ike a few hours earlier, up in the attic, which was where the Broflovskis normally took their meals. Kyle's mother had had the idea that it was good for Ike's social development to act as a host.

"And I don't want them harassing you," Stan said, dropping the blinds and heading toward the bed, where Kyle was stretched out in his too-small pajamas. "You're not a public figure. They can't make you talk."

"Calm down," Kyle said. Stan sat next to him, their backs to the headboard. Stan had been overprotective of Kyle ever since a grieving kid in elementary school kicked Kyle's ass for having a mother who'd started the war. Both of Kyle's front teeth were knocked out during the fight. He had to get a bridge, and still had regular nightmares that it fell out and all of the American dentists had been killed in the war, leaving him forever toothless. For a few years after it happened, Stan wouldn't even let Kyle walk to class alone.

"And what about Ike?" Stan said. "You can't have reporters crawling all over your house. Someone might sneak up to the attic."

"Stan," Kyle said. He stretched his arm across Stan's chest, palm up. "Dad's not going to let them in. He's not that out of it. We've had reporters out there a million times, and none of them has ever sneaked into our attic."

"What about these new guards—"

"They're all stationed outside," Kyle said. "Only Jimbo and Ned are allowed in the house. My dad made sure."

"How are you feeling?" Stan asked. Kyle shrugged.

"Numb," he said. Stan put his hand on Kyle's arm, rubbing his thumb over the little bones in Kyle's wrist. Kyle could feel Stan staring at him, waiting for him to share more feelings. When Stan's father died he'd jumped right into the angry stage of grieving, and for months he did nothing but scowl and snap at people. Kyle had been terrified that Stan would eventually turn that anger on him, because of his mother, or because his own father had survived, but Stan never did.

"Wendy had a point, don't you think?" Kyle said later, when the lights were off and they were lying together under the blankets, Stan's arm tight across Kyle's back. They hadn't been cuddly together since Stan's father died, and Kyle had missed being close to him more than he'd realized. Stan had a particular smell that felt like a warm, dark place, somewhere safe to hide.

"A point about what?" Stan asked.

"Kenny. Leaving his mother and sister when he enlists. Maybe he should stay."

"No, Kenny's like me," Stan said. "We need – we just need to go. We need to be there, where our dads were, and—"

"And what, die like them?"

Stan made a disapproving sound and tugged on one of Kyle's curls. "No," he said.

"Well, I'm coming with you," Kyle said, winding his arm around Stan's waist and moving a little closer. "So don't try to stop me."

"I wouldn't want to go without you," Stan said. Kyle looked up at him, surprised. "I know," Stan said. "It's terrible."

"Why's it terrible?"

"Because, I should want you to stay here, where it's safe! But, I don't know. The idea of going up north without you scares the shit out of me." He winced when his v-chip tazed him for the curse, and Kyle moaned sympathetically.

"You think I'm going to save your butt or something?" Kyle asked, grinning. He was flattered. Ever since the ass kicking incident he'd feared that Stan saw him as a kind of pathetic weakling who needed protecting.

"Maybe," Stan said. "But it's more like I don't want to let the war turn me into something I'm not. And if I have you there, I'll always be me. I won't get lost."

Kyle had believed that Stan no longer had the ability to surprise him, or to strike him speechless. He felt himself flushing, embarrassed by Stan's sincerity. Stan didn't look away, didn't even blink.

"What about Wendy?" Kyle asked.

"She – it's not the same," Stan said, and then he did look away. "I'd be too obsessed with protecting her if she came with me. Anyway, she's a pacifist."

"Yeah, I know," Kyle said. He'd always resented the idea that Stan felt a need to protect him, but it hurt to hear that it was Wendy who would wreck Stan's chances of being a good soldier, not him. "That's not what I meant. I meant, won't she hate you for doing it? Since she's so opposed to the war?"

"We've talked about it," Stan said. "She'd be disappointed, but she wouldn't hate me. She doesn't believe in, like. Forcing her ideals on others."

Bullshit, Kyle wanted to say, but he didn't, and not because he didn't want to be buzzed for the swear.

"I guess she'll be here in the morning," Kyle said when he saw Stan starting to drift, his eyelids heavy. "Wendy. With her casserole."

"She just wants to fix everyone," Stan said, and he yawned. "Everything, I mean. And all she can do is make these gestures. But she really wants to do something. She wants it all to matter, these little things she does."

"That's why you love her," Kyle said, feeling like someone was digging for clams between his ribs. Stan nodded and closed his eyes. "What if the war ended before you got a chance to enlist?" Kyle asked, not wanting to lose him to sleep yet. He knew he'd only be able to string a few restless minutes of sleep together himself. He could hear Ike pacing overhead. "Would you feel cheated?" Kyle asked, pinching Stan's side to get him to open his eyes. They kept hearing that the war was nearly over, that America and her allies were on the verge of victory, but they'd been hearing that since they were eight years old.

"I'd only feel cheated if Canada won," Stan said.

"Remember Terrence and Philip?"

"Of course I remember them, dude," Stan said. "But that's not –"

"We both cried when they executed them. I think – even Cartman did, didn't he?"

"Kyle," Stan said. "A lot's changed since then. It's not the same war."

Kyle knew what Stan meant, but he didn't think he was right. He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep until Stan had drifted off. When he had, Kyle rolled onto his back and looked at the window, no stars visible, snow still falling. In the morning there would be a fresh blanket of white. It was much colder up north, where the fighting was. Some soldiers froze to death. Kyle rolled against Stan and wrapped his arms around him again. He didn't believe in the war, certainly not like his mother had and not even the way that Stan did, as if it was an evil that had finally become necessary. Still, he would go. Stan needed him, he'd said so, and Kyle, lacking a nobler cause, would keep him warm.

Protesters attended the memorial service for Sheila Broflovski. Kyle had seen plenty of art depicting his mother being killed in obscene fashions, and he'd never gotten used to it, but it didn't bother him as much as it once had. What got to him about these funeral protesters wasn't their anger at his mother but their unwillingness to back off even after they'd won. She's gone, Kyle wanted to shout as he filed past them after the service, flanked by his father and Stan. There's nothing left to hate. He'd heard, despite his father's efforts to shield him from the reports, that they'd even burned her bones.

He stayed out of school for a week and returning wasn't easy, even with Stan there to glower at anyone who stared. Wendy brought more casseroles to the house, and Gerald spent a lot of time crying into his hands and talking about relocating, though he knew as well as Kyle did that they wouldn't be able to get Ike across any of the state borders. Even if they had forged papers, the Broflovskis were too famous to escape, and a twelve-year-old boy traveling with them wouldn't be mistaken for anyone other than Ike, who'd been declared legally dead at three years old. One of Kyle's mother's detractors' favorite smears was the accusation that she'd killed her adopted Canadian son herself.

Kenny enlisted on his eighteenth birthday, and Kyle hired Karen McCormick as a housekeeper. He'd been given access to the household accounts, and there was no secret pile of gold, but the Broflovskis were doing far better than most families in South Park. Speaking tours like the one his mother had been doing when she was captured and killed were a big part of why.

"The only room you won't clean is the attic," Kyle said as he showed Karen around the house. She was quiet and mousy, and too young to be put to work, but Kenny wouldn't accept Kyle's money as charity, and Kyle didn't want Karen and Carol McCormick to end up at Liane Cartman's brothel any more than Kenny did. "My mother has secret government papers up there," Kyle said. They were standing at the foot of the stairs that led up to the attic, and Kyle's heart was pounding, though he'd warned Ike to be silent, and being silent was something that Ike was very good at. "So don't ever enter the attic under any circumstances. It's a matter of national security."

"Yes, sir," Karen said.

"Dude, please," Kyle said. "Don't call me that."

Kenny left for boot camp in Fort Collins just a few weeks later. He'd brought paperwork from the recruiter for Kyle and Stan, and Kyle poured over it at night, alone in bed, wanting nothing to do with the army. In his fantasies he wandered a majestic Canadian wood with Stan at his side, guns in their hands, and he stopped to peer at animals when Stan reached over to still him with a hand on his wrist. Kyle wasn't stupid enough to think it would be anything like that, but he kept returning to that mental image anyway.

April sped by, and the news reports were still full of speculation about the death of Sheila Broflovski by the first of May. Kyle tried to tune it out, but certain things leaked through, and he despaired mostly at the thought of how they must have laughed at her when she was scared, when she finally knew that she wouldn't be rescued. He imagined that she would have held on to a prideful hope that she would be saved for as long as she could, which made the idea of her finally letting that go so much worse. At night, Kyle left the house when he couldn't stand the sound of his father's weeping and his brother talking to himself, just a low murmur that seemed to ride with the dust motes in every room of the house, floating through the vents. Sneaking past Jimbo and Ned had always been easy enough, but with the new guards surrounding the house it was trickier, and sometimes he had to leap back through his window when one of them rounded a corner, but most of the time he was patient enough to wait for the right moment to escape. Sometimes he just walked for a long time, sticking to backyards because he was breaking curfew, but most nights he climbed through Stan's bedroom window. The first few times Kyle did this, Stan woke up and talked with him for a while, yawning as he tried to stay awake.

"Shh, it's okay," Kyle said on the third night, tossing his boots over the side of Stan's bed. "Just sleep. I don't need to talk. Just pretend I'm not here."

Stan moaned disagreeably and slid his arm around Kyle's shoulders. He was asleep again in just a few minutes, breathing into Kyle's hair. Kyle closed his eyes, bathed in the smell of Stan, and pretended that he was Stan, that this was his bed, his house, his own familiar scent. He wanted to be Stan mostly so he'd feel more enthusiastic about the army, but also to escape the grief of his mother and her legacy. He wanted to know for sure that he wasn't a coward, but he only knew that about Stan.

"Did you sleep?" Stan would ask in the morning when they lingered in bed. There were strict punishments for missing or being late for school, but by then everyone knew of their intention to follow Kenny into the army, and they'd been treated like death row prisoners by the teachers ever since, tip-toed around.

"I slept," Kyle said, yawning. "A little."

"There's whiskey under my bed if you want some," Stan said. Kyle laughed.

"Before school? Dude, that's pushing it a little, don't you think?"

"No, I mean at night," Stan said, sitting up. "You know." He scratched at the back of his neck. "Next time you come. To help you sleep."

"I should stop doing this to you," Kyle said.

"Doing what?"

"Coming through your window. Waking you up."

"No, it's not like waking up," Stan said. "It's like a dream, but then, in the morning, you're still here." He smiled, and Kyle thought of that Coleridge quote, though he knew that Stan wasn't thinking of it, or envisioning Kyle as a rare and beautiful flower that he'd plucked in his dreams.

"Just give me fair warning if you ever sneak Wendy in," Kyle said. "I don't want to walk in on that shit." He hadn't meant to curse and the shock took him off guard, which always made it hurt worse.

"We don't do that here," Stan said. He rubbed Kyle's shoulder to soothe the lingering pain from the v-chip before getting out of bed. Kyle watched him cross the room, stretching his arms over his head as he walked, and imagined Stan in the backseat of his car with Wendy, the windows fogged. Trying to picture it made him feel nervous for Stan, protective, and he wondered if Wendy gave orders or criticized his technique. Stan would be so wounded by that, secretly, pretending to laugh it off, and it made Kyle angry to think about it, though it probably wasn't anything like that when Stan and Wendy were alone together. Maybe Wendy was quiet and impressed when she was in Stan's arms, and maybe Stan handled her confidently, bolstered by how wet she'd get for him.

"Does Wendy know you're enlisting in three weeks?" Kyle asked. They were going to do it together, on Kyle's birthday, just two weeks after graduation.

"Yeah," Stan said, his back to the bed as he dressed.

"And?"

"I don't know." He was mumbling; Kyle had suspected he wouldn't want to talk about it. "She's not happy, but. She's not surprised, either. She was surprised that you're coming with me, though."

"Why?" Kyle sat up, awake and on guard now. "Because I'm a weakling, or—"

"No," Stan said, turning. "Because, well. She said she thought you were smarter than that."

Kyle huffed, secretly a little flattered. Stan tossed a shirt at him.

"You can wear that," he said. "If you don't want to go home to change."

"Thanks." Kyle took off the shirt he'd worn to bed and pulled Stan's on. It was an ugly red and black flannel that hung off of Kyle's shoulders and clashed with his hair. It smelled a little bit like Stan's sheets. "Is your mom back yet?" Kyle asked.

"No, she's in Denver until Friday." Sharon had joined the army as a nurse the year before, around the time Stan informed her of his plan to serve. The only way she could bear the idea was to go out and immediately start patching up other people's wounded sons.

"Does she know you're enlisting in two weeks?"

"Yeah," Stan said. He sat beside Kyle on the bed. "We haven't been talking that much."

"Sorry, dude," Kyle said, touching Stan's back. Stan shrugged.

"Do you think I'm being selfish?" he asked. "For wanting to go?"

"No," Kyle said. "You wouldn't feel right staying. I get it." In his case, he wouldn't feel right because Stan would be gone, but for Stan it was about doing his part.

"What about your dad and Ike?" Stan asked.

"What about them?" Kyle asked, dreading this. He knew Stan had been wanting to ask. Stan rolled his eyes.

"What do they think about you joining up? Kyle – you've told them, right?"

"Um." Kyle scratched at the back of his head. Stan moaned and dropped down onto his back on the bed, looking up at Kyle.

"Two weeks, dude," Stan said. "Don't wait until the night before."

"I'm not even sure they'll be alright without me," Kyle said, and he wanted to take that back, because Stan needed him more, or maybe Kyle just wanted to be needed by Stan more. "But, no," Kyle said. "Dad will rise to the occasion. Or Ike will."

"Yeah," Stan said, but he didn't look very certain either. "C'mon, we're already late."

They walked in during a history lesson and took their usual seats near the front. Their teacher went on with the lesson without commenting on their presence. Kyle tried to pay attention, but he couldn't. History was his least favorite subject. His mother was mentioned in their text books, and in the books she was still alive.

"You g-wads must be enjoying being treated like celebrities," Cartman said at lunch. They were eating outside, under the big oak tree in the courtyard. Kyle was missing Kenny, though he was only a few hours away, up in Fort Collins doing drills and cleaning his bunk.

"Nobody's treating us like celebrities," Stan said. "We graduate in a week, anyway. Everybody will end up getting drafted eventually. Me and Kyle don't think we're special for signing up."

"Like heck you don't," Cartman said.

"You don't know shit about us," Kyle said, so forcefully that his v-chip zapped him for a full two seconds. Stan was staring at him when he wrenched his eyes open again.

"Hey, fellas!" That was Butters, trotting over toward them, Bebe at his side. "Can we sit with you for a minute?"

"Sure," Kyle said, moving closer to Stan to make room. Stan was staring at something across the courtyard, and Kyle could guess what it was before looking. Wendy was manning the Red Cross volunteer table with Gregory, as she did every Wednesday during lunch. Gregory was an official representative, and Wendy was waiting until she was eighteen to join. They handed out pamphlets to interested students, but most people knew by now if they were interested or not, so Wendy spent much of her Wednesday lunch time chatting and laughing with Gregory, who still seemed to be holding a candle for her. Wendy insisted that he was gay when Stan got jealous, but Kyle didn't think so, and he would know.

"We heard you guys are going to sign up in a few weeks," Bebe said as she settled down beside Butters.

"Yep," Stan said. "A week after graduation. We have to wait until Kyle's birthday."

"Can we come with you?" Butters asked, blushing. "We think it would be real neat if we all got put into the same battalion."

"Sure," Kyle said, though he didn't like the idea of fighting alongside Butters, who was enthusiastic but clumsy. "I didn't know you guys were planning on enlisting."

"Oh, sure!" Butters said. "My dad says it will make a man out of me, and that's something I really want to be, you know?"

"Yeah, good luck with that," Cartman said. He laughed and brushed crumbs from his chest. "I bet it makes a man out of Bebe before you."

"Shut up, Eric," Bebe said. She looked at Kyle and quirked her mouth. "I don't care about the war," she said. "I just want to find Clyde."

"You, personally, are going to find Clyde?" Cartman said, snorting. "Or the whole lost 56th? Hey, you should go see Craig and ask him where he last saw them. Though I guess he was too busy getting his eye blown out to pay real close attention to his surroundings."

"Why are you being like this?" Stan asked, reaching over to punch Cartman's shoulder.

"Because he's always been like this?" Kyle said. "Hello?"

"I just think it's pretty sick," Cartman said. "All of you morons lining up to get your eyes blown out, too, or worse. They don't even think the rest of the 56th is alive."

"I know that," Bebe said, looking into her lap. "But I think they are."

"How come?" Kyle asked.

"Because I would know if Clyde was dead," Bebe said. She gave Kyle a sharp stare that made him want to duck.

"I don't think he's dead, either," Butters said, patting Bebe's shoulder. "Craig told the army that the rest of the battalion was alive when he got separated from 'em during that battle."

"That crazy effer probably offed them all himself before shooting himself in the eye," Cartman muttered.

"Shut your fucking mouth," Bebe said, and she barely blinked when her v-chip went off, her eyes narrowed at Cartman. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"He never does," Kyle said. "Just ignore him. But, yeah. You guys are welcome to come with us when we sign up. That'd be good."

"We could have a party later that night," Stan said, and Kyle laughed. "What?" Stan said, elbowing him.

"Nothing," Kyle said, knowing that how cheerful and naive Stan had been about enlisting wouldn't be funny for much longer.

Graduation was somber and attended by the press, reporters taking long-range pictures of Kyle with zoom lenses. The school made special arrangements so that he wouldn't be hounded by them as he left, and he went back to Stan's house with his father to avoid the news vans that had shown up at his house. It was an abnormally hot day for late May, and Kyle fell asleep on the Marsh family living room couch while his father made chitchat with Sharon and Shelly, who had come home from Denver for the occasion. She had some sort of administrative position with the army and apparently made good money, all of which Stan viewed bitterly as a kind of consolation prize for the death of his father.

"I don't want them to go," Kyle heard Sharon saying as he woke. Stan was shaking his arm, giving him a wide-eyed look. Apparently he'd forgotten to instruct his mother not to mention anything about their plans to enlist.

"Them?" Gerald said.

"The boys," Sharon said.

"Where are they going?" Gerald asked, looking at Kyle like he already knew.

The rest of the afternoon was tearful and exhausting, but Kyle wouldn't budge. He was going with Stan, even if it broke his father's heart and made his brother hate him.

"There's nothing for me here!" Kyle shouted when they were back at the house, Ike watching them fight from the top of the stairs, his fingers in his mouth. "I love you guys, and I don't want to leave you alone, but I can't stay here while all my friends go off to fight."

"This isn't about leaving me and Ike alone!" Gerald said. "This is about your life, Kyle. Now that your mother's gone, we can say it. It's a losing battle. A death wish. God rest her soul – what your mother fought for has been compromised."

"I'm sorry you believe that," Kyle said, wishing he didn't have to lie. It would be easier this way, if his father thought he had ideals and not just a slobbering, self-destroying need to go where Stan went. "I still think there's plenty worth fighting for," Kyle said, and his eyes watered when he said so, because he was thinking of Stan and the hope he clung to. "Mom would understand," Kyle said, and he wanted to take that back when his father turned away.

"You're so like her," Gerald said, his voice croaky and small.

"Who am I like?" Ike asked loudly, from the top of the stairs. Gerald and Kyle turned, but not fast enough to see him dart off. He was gone, and Kyle shivered when he heard the attic door slam, thinking of ghosts. Ike called himself a ghost sometimes, and made references to his death, which was recorded as a drowning in Crystal Lake, the body never recovered.

Kyle gave Ike an hour to pout before knocking on the attic door. There was no answer, but Kyle opened it anyway. He found Ike playing the old Gamesphere that he was obsessed with, a war game that Kyle had once loved.

"Power's back on?" Kyle said. Ike shook his head, his eyes on the screen.

"I rigged it to a generator," he said.

"Where'd you get a generator?"

Ike shrugged, and Kyle sat down beside him, watching explosions on the screen. It was a first person shooter set during World War II, and the graphics still looked pretty good to Kyle. He watched Ike play for a while, wondering if this was what war looked like, every blink interrupted by the flash of gunfire.

"You can't go wandering around at night," Kyle said. "If you need things – generators, parts, whatever – ask Dad. He'll get them for you."

"You go wandering around at night," Ike said. Kyle was surprised that he'd noticed, though he supposed he shouldn't be. Ike was mostly nocturnal.

"That's different," Kyle said. "I'm not legally dead."

"Sure you are. You're signing up for the army, aren't you?"

"Ike."

"Where do you go?" Ike asked, putting the controller down. "At night? Have you got a girlfriend?"

"No," Kyle said. His face got red when Ike sat there in silence, studying him.

"To Stan's," Ike deduced, and he turned back to the game. "Are you going to throw yourself on a land mine for him? Is he going to make Wendy name their baby after you?"

"Do you really think I'm going to die?" Kyle asked. Ike sighed and paused the game. He let the controller tumble out of his hands like it had stopped working.

"I wish I could go with you," he said, and if that was an answer to Kyle's question, Kyle didn't know if it was a yes or a no.

"Wouldn't you hate to kill Canadians?" Kyle asked.

"Won't you?" Ike asked, looking up from the discarded controller, at Kyle.

"Yes," Kyle said. "You – don't look at me like that. You just said it yourself. You know why I'm going."

"So why'd you tell Dad that horse shit about believing in the war?"

Ike had never had a v-chip installed, and he wielded his curses more skillfully than anyone Kyle knew. He really meant to make them hurt, but he didn't have to weigh his own pain against how badly he wanted to wound someone else. It gave his curses an exactness that felt damning, at least to Kyle.

"It's not entirely horse shit," Kyle said, and when he got shocked he was glad, because it felt like punishment for believing that he really was going for a reason, and for lulling himself to sleep at night with fantasies about saving Stan. In the fantasies, they both survived.

"How could something only partially be horse shit?" Ike asked. He seemed distressed and intrigued by the idea, as if he was envisioning a teapot made only partially out of shit.

"Dad doesn't need to know why I'm going," Kyle said. "And I did tell him, sort of. I'm not going to sit here doing nothing while my friends leave town."

"What's it like to have friends?" Ike asked, just trying to make him feel bad now.

"Stan is your friend," Kyle said. Other than Jimbo and Ned, Stan was the only one the family trusted with the knowledge of Ike's continued existence. Even Sharon didn't know.

"Stan looks at me like I'm your imaginary friend," Ike said. "Sometimes I think he's right."

"You're real," Kyle said, reaching over to pinch him. Ike allowed it, unflinching.

"You'll never know if I felt that or not," Ike said.

"Your skin is turning pink, though."

"That could still be in your head."

They did this sometimes, as a kind of intellectual exercise, Kyle attempting to convince Ike that he wasn't just a figment of the Broflovski family imagination.

"Stan is proof," Kyle said. "Because he can see you. He talks to you."

"Stan would play along if you talked to the wall," Ike said, and Kyle blushed, thinking that was probably true.

Stan spent the night at the Broflovski house for Kyle's eighteenth birthday. Kyle had insisted that he didn't want a party or gifts, and Wendy still gave him both. He was glad when the awkward get together at her house was over and he could go to his room with Stan, carting his gifts. Stan's was a pocket knife with a jade handle, dark green, roughly the color of Kyle's eyes.

"What'd you have to trade for this?" Kyle asked when they were in his bed together, Stan watching Kyle play with the knife. It was definitely from the black market.

"Nothing big," Stan said.

"Tell me."

"Some books," Stan said, and Kyle felt badly, because books were worth a lot. He put the blade of the knife against his palm to see if it was sharp. "Don't," Stan said, twitching when Kyle pressed it in enough to produce a drop of blood.

"I'm not," Kyle said. "Just testing." He'd considered asking Stan to do some kind of childish blood brothers thing, but reconsidered, because he didn't want to see even a drop of Stan's blood spilled. He cleaned the knife on his jeans and put it in his pocket. "Thanks," he said, turning toward Stan, who still looked worried.

"Tomorrow," Stan said. It was a Sunday, and they would go to the recruiter's office first thing in the morning with Bebe and Butters.

"I'm not scared," Kyle said, and it was true, but it didn't make him feel certain that he wasn't a coward.

"I wasn't until now," Stan said.

"Why are you scared now?"

"Because," Stan said, and he looked at the blood on Kyle's hand. It was just a little; Kyle licked it up so Stan wouldn't have to see it. Stan's face was red when their eyes met again.

"I'm not going to die gloriously," Kyle said. "Look at me. I'm not that kind of guy."

"You know what's sick?" Stan asked, his voice very low. Kyle shook his head.

"What?"

"The fact that I'm glad you're coming with me – that I want it? It means – I think it means that I wouldn't want to die without you. I'd want you to come with me."

"I will," Kyle said.

"But I don't really want that!" Stan said, grabbing Kyle's shoulder as if to stop him from doing something that would seal his promise. "Kyle, seriously. Don't ever let me be that selfish."

Kyle didn't say anything, too afraid that every explanation he tried to offer would boil down to the truth: Stan was what he was living for, anyway.

"I'd want to go with you, but not for you," Kyle finally said. Stan was staring at him, breathing a little harder, getting himself worked up. "It'd be, like, so lame if you had some awesome adventure without me. That's why I'd want to go."

"You don't know that death is an awesome adventure," Stan said.

"Well, yeah," Kyle said. "But it seems like something that could be, if we did it together. Like the war."

"They're not the same thing," Stan said. "Death and the war."

"Oh, I know. I'm holding out more hope for death, in terms of things that might be awesome adventures. Dude." He looked over at Stan's chest, watching it rise and fall with his quickened breath. "Are you sure you want to do this? It's okay if you changed your—"

"No, I'm sure." Stan rolled onto his side, away from Kyle. "Let's just go to sleep. So the morning will come faster."

Kyle stayed awake, listening to Stan's breathing calm and slow as he drifted off. When Kyle slept, he dreamed of battlefields, and in his dreams he opened his lips and felt blood pour from his mouth, hot and sticky, tasting of all the secret things that he'd managed until then to keep inside. He woke up afraid and jerked toward the window before he remembered that he didn't have to walk to Stan's house. Stan was still asleep beside him, lying on his stomach, his face turned toward Kyle on the pillow. Kyle scooted up and curved his body around Stan's until he could feel the heat of him, just an eyelash away from touching him.

"Don't go," Kyle whispered, but it didn't work. In the morning, they went to the recruiting office as planned and filled out the forms, sitting in a drab little back room with Bebe and Butters. The swish of their individual pencils made Kyle think of school.

They were made to wait for a long time after the major had collected their forms, to the point that Kyle began to worry that something was wrong. Butters was yawning but cheerful, chattering about a letter he'd gotten from Kenny, who said Fort Collins wasn't so bad but that most people in his training squad were idiots. Bebe was silent, her arms crossed high over her chest. She seemed ready for a fight, but when the major returned, it was Kyle he called on.

"Come in to my office for a minute, Mr. Broflovski," he said, holding the door open. Kyle looked at Stan, who shook his head a little. He didn't seem worried, just quietly annoyed. Kyle stood and walked into the office, feeling as if he was about to be accused of stealing from the market or cheating on a test. "Have a seat," the major said, and he shut the door.

"Is something wrong, sir?" Kyle asked when the major sat across from him, behind an ugly metal desk. Having to say 'sir' tweaked at Kyle; it would be hard to get used to calling people that. The major knitted his hands together and rested his elbows on his desk.

"Mr. Broflovski," he said, openly incredulous, "We can't have you in the Army."

"I'm – why not?"

"The official reason I'll give is that you've got Type 1 diabetes, and believe me, that's enough. Your medication needs refrigeration. There's no refrigeration where your friends are going, son. But even if I was able to station you someplace with a reliable power supply, did you really think you would be anonymous as a soldier?"

"What – what do you mean?" Kyle asked. His heart was beating fast, and he was waiting to be told that this was only a prank, something orchestrated by Cartman to momentarily crush him. "Because of my mother?" Kyle said, the angry heat on his face sinking down into his chest and tightening around his lungs.

The major nodded. "There are people in the Army who don't want to be there," he said. "It's ugly to say it, but that's the draft for you. There are some real angry men and women fighting for us, and they didn't like your mother. She always said she was fighting this war for her kids. You understand me, son? Some of those soldiers see you as the reason they're in hell."

"But I was against the war," Kyle said. "When, when I was little, I never wanted any of this—"

"Sure," the major said, a little sharply. "But you might not get a chance to explain that before someone turns friendly fire on you in the heat of battle. I just can't do it, Kyle. You're too famous, and there's too much animosity toward your family on both sides. You'd be a huge liability." He let that sink in, watching Kyle's lips move soundlessly. "I'm sorry, son."

"Please," Kyle said when he could speak again. "There's got to be some way—"

"Why are you so desperate to fight, anyway?" the major asked, frowning and sitting back a little. "Honestly, I never thought I'd need to have this conversation."

"I can't stay here," Kyle said. All the practiced reasoning he'd given his father escaped him, and he could only think of Stan's name. "Please, there's – everyone else is leaving, I can't just stay here and do nothing."

"Try the Red Cross," the major said. "I think that'd be more appropriate." He stood, finished with the discussion. Kyle couldn't make his legs work. The major cleared his throat and Kyle got to his feet shakily, moving on auto pilot as he walked toward the door.

Reentering the waiting room, Kyle felt like a ghost, someone who was already in another world. Stan sprang out of his chair when he saw Kyle's face.

"Congratulations," the major said, walking around Kyle. He put his hand out and Stan shook it, looking confused. "And to you," the major said when he shook Bebe's hand. "And you," he said, moving on to Butters. "Welcome to the U.S. Army."


	2. Chapter 2

Kyle tried to fight the Army's decision, had his father get in touch with people, got the mayor involved. She'd been friends with Kyle's mother. Everyone who meant anything in the U.S. government had, but nobody wanted to help him. That was over; she was gone, and they all knew the major at the recruitment office in South Park was right. Kyle wasn't a soldier, he was a liability.

Stan wouldn't give up, even after Kyle had. He acted like getting Kyle into the Army was a fight to save Kyle's life, until he seemed to realize abruptly that it wasn't that at all, and they stopped talking about Stan's approaching departure for boot camp altogether. It was a hot summer, and there were rumors of air raids as far south as San Francisco.

"It's probably for the best," Wendy said at one point. "I mean – about you not going. I bet you'll be glad you didn't."

Kyle got up and left the table where they'd been sitting, eating from a little bag of barbecue chips they'd all contributed toward at the black market. Stan followed Kyle away from the tables and sat beside him on the curb. The asphalt was so hot it felt like it was burning through the seat of Kyle's jeans.

"I told her not to say that in front of you," Stan said.

"I don't want to talk about it," Kyle said, so they didn't.

The night before Stan, Butters, and Bebe were due to report to Fort Collins to begin their training, Butters' parents threw a party. Kyle didn't want to go, but there was nothing else to do but sit at home feeling sorry for himself and worried for Stan. Ike had been especially weird and reclusive, and Kyle knew he should do something about that and that he would eventually have to, but in the meantime he was too obsessed with his own misery to do anything productive about Ike's.

"I can't believe I'm leaving tomorrow," Stan said when he was getting ready for the party in his room, Kyle sitting on his bed. Kyle was so angry about everything everywhere that he had to stop himself from snapping at Stan for saying such obvious things. It wasn't that Stan was dull, he just felt the need to fill the room with some form of conversation when Kyle got quiet and sulky.

"Time doesn't feel linear anymore," Kyle said. "It feels like something that used to be flat, like a piece of paper, and somebody crumpled it up." He didn't even know what he's talking about. It was barely five o'clock and he had already had three shots from Stan's whiskey bottle. Stan turned from his dresser mirror and smirked. He was doing the tie on his uniform for the third time, trying to get it right. Butters had insisted that everyone who was enlisted wear their uniform to the party, for picture-taking purposes.

"Let's eat something," Stan said when Kyle reached for the whiskey bottle again.

Stan's house was empty; his mother was already at the party, helping Butters' parents with the preparations. Kyle sat at the kitchen table and watched Stan rummage in the fridge. He hoped he would be able to sneak into the Marsh house when Stan was away at training and Sharon off somewhere with the Red Cross. It seemed important that he should be able to come into this kitchen when it was empty and sit in silence, grieving for the quiet rooms.

"I'm feeling a little dramatic tonight," Kyle said when Stan sat a plate of macaroni salad in front of him. It was the kind Kyle loved, with cubed ham and mayo. The kind of thing his mother never would have served.

"Whiskey tends to make everyone dramatic," Stan said. He looked into the fridge. "I wish we had some beer. I should have told my mom to get some."

"I'm sure there will be beer at the party," Kyle said. The drinking age was still 21, but nobody prosecuted for underage drinking anymore.

"Yeah," Stan said. He looked glum as he took a seat across from Kyle and picked up a fork. The remainder of the macaroni sat before him in a Tupperware container. "I don't know if I want to go to this stupid party," he said.

"Why not?" Kyle asked. He knew why he didn't want to go: he didn't want to share this last night before Stan's departure with the others, namely Wendy. Stan would be gone for two months.

"I don't know," Stan said. He picked at the macaroni with his fork, ate some. "It's just – Butters. Jesus, Kyle!" Stan threw his fork down, suddenly upset. "I'm going to war with Butters? What the fuh—" He stopped himself before the curse, and Kyle saw his throat bob as he swallowed it down.

"What are you yelling at me for?" Kyle asked. "It's not my fault. Unless you think it is."

"No – what? I'm not yelling at you, and I know it's not your fault. But – Kyle!"

"What?" Kyle forked macaroni angrily. "What do you want me to do about it? You think I didn't try hard enough to get in—"

"I just said I know it's not your fault. Don't pick a fight with me on my last night in town, Jesus."

"Don't call it your last night in town." Kyle was muttering, staring at the macaroni. Suddenly its pale yellowness seemed very unappetizing, and the elbow shapes looked like guts. "You'll be back after training – right?" He looked up, terrified that Stan would say no.

"Well, yeah," Stan said. "In two freaking months, and then they'll assign me someplace. Kyle, I'm upset, okay, can you just let me say so without jumping all over me?"

"I'm not jumping," Kyle said. He wanted to get up and sit in Stan's lap, to spend the whole evening just sitting there holding him, being held.

"You are so jumping." Stan sighed and stared at him, watching him eat macaroni. "Hey, Terrance," he said.

"What?" Kyle mumbled, not in the mood for this. Stan always did this when Kyle was gloomy.

"You have to say, 'What, Philip?'"

"Goddammit, Stan," Kyle said. His v-chip barely flashed him, because he'd meant it almost as an endearment. He looked up and smirked at Stan's expectant expression. "What, Philip?" Kyle asked, stopping short of a Canadian accent.

"You farted in court."

"Yes, Philip, I'm making a case for our defense." This had been a lot funnier when they were kids, in bed together during sleepovers. It had been funnier when Terrance and Philip weren't dead. Stan was grinning anyway, satisfied. He took a huge bite of macaroni, and something about the sight of him just then, elbows on the table, military-issue tie slightly crooked, made Kyle want to promise his soul to any willing devil for even the flimsiest guarantee of Stan's safety.

"You've got some mayo," Kyle said, pointing to the corner of his lip to show Stan where it was. When Stan wiped it off with the back of his hand Kyle was sorry he'd mentioned it. It had been part of the bitter perfection of the moment.

They left for the party an hour later, a flask of whiskey tucked inside Stan's jacket. The street outside of Butters' house was crowded with cars, and there were red, white and blue balloons on the mailbox. Stan's mother chided them for being late when they found her inside. Kyle got himself a glass of wine, noting the cut of Wendy's dress as she pushed her way through the crowd to get to Stan. It was black, conservative, almost funerary. In fact, it was the same one she'd worn to Kyle's mother's memorial service. She looked like she'd been crying.

"Kyle!" Butters said, bounding over to him. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were slightly wild; he seemed drunk, and he hugged Kyle with inappropriate vigor. The uniform made him look like a little boy in a school play about patriotism. "I'm so glad you came! I was worried you wouldn't!"

"Yeah," Kyle said, staring at him. "You're welcome."

"It's such a special night," Butters said. "My parents are actually proud of me."

"That's great, Butters. I'm happy for you." Kyle threw back the rest of his wine and got more.

"Where's Stan?" Butters asked.

"Over there," Kyle said. Wendy was tucked under Stan's arm, attempting to straighten his tie while he spoke to his mother.

"Wendy's real upset," Butters said, whispering loudly. "It's – it's a hard thing, having him go."

"Yep."

"I can kind of relate," Butters said, and he pulled Kyle close. Kyle leaned away, sneering when Butters' mouth bumped against the rim of his ear. "I have a – a thing to confess," Butters said. "Tonight, maybe."

"Okay," Kyle said. He squirmed out of Butters' grip. "That's – that's great for you. I think your dad's looking for you."

"He is?" Butters squawked, whirling around. Kyle used the opportunity to escape, slipping into the crowd.

Kyle's rotten mood only got worse as he refilled his wine glass, to the point that he was glad to see Cartman when he showed up late. It would be a relief to have someone to fight with over petty things, a distraction. Cartman seemed not to be suffering any of the embarrassment Kyle was feeling about not being in uniform. He made straight for the buffet and loaded a plate with hot wings.

"Ey, Jew," Cartman said. He only seemed to get tazed for the slur fifty percent of the time. "I wasn't sure you'd show up."

"Why's everyone saying that?" Kyle asked. Cartman looked up from his plate of wings, his eyebrows lifting.

"Whoa," he said. "You're drunk."

"You're drunk," Kyle said, scoffing. He took a hot wing from Cartman's plate and tore into it with his teeth, sauce smearing on his lips. "Why'd you even come? If you think they're all suckers?"

"Duh," Cartman said, lifting the plate. "Free food."

"You probably like to get out of that house," Kyle theorized, shaking the half-eaten wing at him. Cartman's face seemed to go heavily blank.

"At least my mom's not dead," he said.

"Wow," Kyle said, and he walked away.

He tried to find Stan, but the crowd was blurring together in a confusing way. Needing air, he pushed out into the backyard, but there were more people there. Butters' father was at the grill, plating hamburgers. Kyle felt hollow but not hungry, and remembering the macaroni salad made his stomach lurch.

"Hey, careful," Bebe said, steadying him as he made his way down the stairs on the short porch, into the lawn. "Are you alright?"

"No," Kyle said. "I mean – yes, but."

"I know," Bebe said. "C'mere."

She took Kyle over to a cement bench near the back fence, where they could sit and watch the party from afar. Bebe's uniform was identical to Stan's, but it made her look more feminine than ever, her usually wild hair slicked back into a neat bun. Kyle's head started to clear, and he let her hold his hand when she reached for it.

"When Clyde left," she said, and that was really all she needed to say. Kyle squeezed her hand, and he felt like he was confessing everything, though he knew then that he didn't need to.

"What if you found him?" Kyle said. "What if you really did?"

"I know he's alive," Bebe said. "I have these dreams – and it's not like I think I'm talking to him, the real him, because if we could do that he would just tell me where he is and I would – go there. But they don't feel like dreams about a ghost. You know?" Kyle shook his head, and she smiled. "Do you believe in auras?" she asked.

"No."

"I thought not." She was still smiling, still holding his hand tightly. "But you know that thing Stan has? That kind of glow? He'll be okay."

"My mother thought she'd be okay," Kyle said. He knew he was being cheap.

"Your mom wasn't like him," Bebe said. "Sorry."

"What are you saying, you can see people's fates? Don't be ridiculous. Or, okay – what's mine?"

"When there's nothing left to burn you have to set yourself on fire," she said.

"What?"

"Nothing." She pinched her eyes shut. "Never mind," she said, and she let go of his hand. "I think it's better that you're not coming with us. He'll have a clearer head if you're not there. He won't go throwing himself in front of enemy fire when he doesn't have to."

"He said that about Wendy," Kyle said.

"I'm sure he did," Bebe said. She stood. "C'mon, you want a hamburger?"

Kyle was eating at the dining room table when Stan found him. He had a beer, and he was smiling like he'd had enough of them to feel better about going to war with Butters. He touched Kyle's back as he sat down beside him.

"Butters is so drunk," Stan said. "His mom had to stop him from making a speech."

"Fuck her," Kyle said. He barely felt the buzz of his v-chip; alcohol tended to dull it. "He should be tah – to make a speech if he wants. He's going to war and stuff."

"What have you been drinking?" Stan asked. He picked up Kyle's plastic party cup and sniffed the wine.

"I might as well drink it all," Kyle said, meaning the Stotches' entire supply of wine. "It's not like I have anyplace to be tomorrow."

"Wendy's gonna come over to your house after I leave tomorrow," Stan said, and he touched Kyle's back again, rubbed it. "She's gonna take you down to the Red Cross volunteer center. You want to sign up, right?"

"Sure," Kyle said, though he resented this, Stan and Wendy conspiring to help him when he was at his lowest. "Fine."

"Is Jimbo gonna come to walk you home?" Stan asked.

"I told him to knock off for the evening," Kyle said. "I thought – thought, you know, we'd be, me and you. Alone."

"After the party, we could—" Stan's eyebrows pinched. "But you're gonna pass out as soon as your head hits your pillow."

"Whatever," Kyle said, and he tried to drink from his empty cup. "When there's nothing left to burn."

"Huh?"

"Nothing – Bebe's crazy. Don't you think? About thinking she can march up there and find Clyde?"

"Shh," Stan said, and he glanced around to make sure no one had heard. "I think it's – noble, I guess."

"Hey, Philip," Kyle said.

"Yeah?" Stan glanced around again. "Terrance?" he said, and he blushed. They never did this in public. It was their sacred, secret thing. People had been arrested for openly lamenting Terrance and Philip's deaths. It was considered treasonous.

"I don't know," Kyle said. He laughed, slumping against Stan's shoulder. "Farts, I guess."

"Okay, dude," Stan said, helping him up. "You need to lie down for a while."

"I want to go home, Stan." Kyle was aware that he was being loud, and that this – with the possible exception of his mother's funeral – was the least appropriate occasion he would ever have the opportunity to ruin with drunken drama.

"I'll take you home in a minute," Stan said, whispering this as he helped Kyle across the living room, toward the stairs. "I just have to say my goodbyes. Here, c'mon. You can hang out in Butters' room until we go, okay?"

"Butters' room," Kyle said, scoffing as if the suggestion that such a place actually existed was ludicrous.

He didn't remember crossing the threshold of Butters' bedroom, but suddenly he was there, being lowered onto Butters' bed by Stan. Kyle grabbed for him, panicked, thinking for a moment that this was the last time they would see each other before Stan left not for training but for the war, their final goodbye. Stan moaned sympathetically when Kyle found his shoulders and pulled him down.

"Don't go," Kyle said. "Don't go, Stan, don't you fuh – fucking – ow, God! – leave me here."

"I'm just going downstairs, dude," Stan said. He extracted himself from Kyle's arms, his face hovering over Kyle's. "I'll be right back. Some of these people – I won't see them for months, you know?"

"I'm sorry, sorry," Kyle said, and he rubbed his hands over his face. "I'm acting like a freak."

"You're just drunk." Stan kissed his forehead. Kyle closed his eyes, wanting another. "Be right back," Stan said, and he touched Kyle's chest before leaving. Kyle could still feel it after Stan was gone, like Stan had left a smoldering hand print.

Kyle dropped into something like sleep, and it was so comfortable, so dark. He opened his eyes when the bed shifted tremendously, as if half of it was crumbling away. He felt ill when he tried to sit up, and for a moment he was comforted by the weight of another hand on his chest, but this one was heavier than Stan's, hotter.

"What are you doing in here, Jew?" Cartman asked, looming over him. He winced, and Kyle laughed. If there was any justice in the v-chip it was that Cartman got shocked when he said that – sometimes. When he meant it to hurt.

"I'm resting," Kyle said. "We're leaving soon."

"Who's we?"

"Me and Stan."

Cartman laughed. "Yeah, right," he said. "I saw him bring you up here an hour ago. He just wanted to dump your drunk ass somewhere so he could get back to his big hero party. Can't believe he wore that fucking uniform, what a douche."

"Shut up," Kyle said, trying to wave Cartman away like a gnat. "You're lying. Stan's gonna come get me. He's taking me home."

"Maybe in a few hours," Cartman said. "After he's sopped up some more glory. He's down there feeling Wendy up while everyone throws flowers at his feet. Butters is an effing clown, Bebe is a delusional b-word, but Stan's the real piece of work. He thinks he's Captain effing America."

"You're jealous," Kyle said, laughing again. Cartman grunted and put his hand on Kyle's throat, not squeezing exactly, just pinching his thumb and forefinger in a little. Kyle went still, stunned.

"I'm not jealous of any of those effers," Cartman said. "I'm smarter than them. You'll see."

"Get your hand off me," Kyle said, and he shoved Cartman's arm away. Cartman smiled down at him. Stan hadn't put any lights on, and Cartman looked coolly menacing in the moonlight through Butters' bedroom window, as if he hadn't done any drinking himself. "What are you doing up here, anyway?" Kyle asked. He tried to sit up, but his head felt like it might fall off if he did.

"Keeping you company," Cartman said. He put his hand on Kyle's chest again. "Somebody has to. Everyone else is leaving you behind, aren't they, Kyle? Hmm?"

Kyle's eyes welled up, and he put his arm over his face to hide it, though Cartman would still see his lips tremble. He wasn't normally so easily riled, especially not by Cartman, not anymore. He was just drunk, so tired, and everything was coming to an end in a way he would never be ready to face. He wanted to go home, but he knew Cartman was right. Stan had needed to get him out of the way discreetly so he could continue being the normal one, the brave one, the life of the party on his last night in town.

"Shh, don't cry," Cartman said, and Kyle couldn't tell if he was being mocked or sincerely comforted; the latter was more disturbing. Cartman's hand slid down to the hem of Kyle's shirt, and Kyle jerked when Cartman's fat fingertips brushed his stomach. "You're not alone, Kyle. I'm still here. I'm gonna do wonderful things in this town. You could help me. We could be partners."

"What are you talking about?" Kyle asked, glaring at him. "Get your hand off me." He tried to swat Cartman's arm, but Cartman evaded his reach. He grabbed Kyle's thigh and squeezed hard, pulling his legs open. Kyle whined and flailed, but Cartman pinned him to the bed easily, one hand heavy on Kyle's shoulder.

"Calm down," Cartman said. "I know what you are."

"Get off of me!" Kyle said. "I'll scream." But he was whispering, already mortified.

"Scream? Why? I told you, I know what you are. I've seen the way you look at Stan. Everybody has! You want a big fat one up your butt, don't you, Kyle? You want to scream something, fine. Everything about you effing screams that."

"I hate you," Kyle said. It was like he'd forgotten, too preoccupied with real problems to spare Cartman a thought. "You want me to be your effing partner? What are you trying to do, recruit people to work in your mother's whorehouse? Branching out to boys?"

"Like you wouldn't love getting treated like a whore," Cartman said, and he flipped Kyle over onto his stomach. For a moment Kyle was certain he was going to throw up, then somehow he was losing his pants. Cartman yanked them down to Kyle's knees while Kyle tried to crawl away from him. The room was spinning; he felt so weak, like someone had been drinking his blood.

"What the _fuck_?" Kyle said, and his v-chip fired hard at the particularly emphatic curse. The force of the shock left him moaning and drooling, disoriented.

"Yeah, that's right," Cartman said. He was panting against Kyle's neck, still wearing his jeans while he humped Kyle's bare ass. "You like that?"

Kyle didn't like it at all and intended to say so, but he was having a hard time even drawing breath, either from being crushed by Cartman or from the aftermath of the electric charge. He felt paralyzed - it had happened to kids of his generation before, though the government denied their v-chips were responsible - and he buried his face in Butter's blankets when Cartman lifted off of him just enough to fit his hand between their bodies. Cartman went right for his ass, prying the cheeks apart and rubbing until he found Kyle's hole. Cartman hummed happily and Kyle tensed up in disgust, though by then he was sure it was a nightmare he was having, that the real Cartman was still downstairs eating hot wings. That had to be the case, because the moment Kyle was able to gather his fractured thoughts enough to wish for this to stop, Cartman's weight disappeared.

He rolled over, realizing slowly that he wasn't waking up, that he had never been asleep. Still feeling too fried from the v-chip flare to think straight, he pulled his pants up and watched blearily as Stan punched Cartman in the stomach and the face, spitting curses as if he had no v-chip at all.

"Stan?" Kyle said. His head was pounding, vision blurring. He buttoned his jeans, shuddering when he imagined that he could still feel Cartman's fingers on him. Cartman seemed smaller than he ever had under Stan, trying to fight back but only managing to flail and shout.

"Kill you, I'll fucking kill you!" Stan said, and he kept hitting Cartman until Kyle was pulling him off.

"You crazy fuck!" Cartman shouted, and his back bowed when his v-chip went off, making him flop back against the carpet like a fish. He groaned and struggled to his feet while Kyle held Stan back. "He was into it! Jesus Christ, my nose is bleeding."

"Get out," Kyle said. He was shaking, holding on to Stan's arm so that he wouldn't topple over.

"I'd press charges," Cartman said, pointing a trembling finger at Stan. "But then they'd kick you out of the army, and I wouldn't want you to miss your opportunity to die like an effing dog in the Canadian mud."

Stan lunged toward Cartman again, and Kyle held him back while Cartman bolted out of the room. As soon as he was gone Kyle turned away from Stan and threw up all over Butters' bedroom floor.

"I'll fucking kill him," Stan said. "He cah- came up here while you were drunk, while you were sleeping-"

"Just let's go, can we go?" Kyle could barely see straight, but when he groped for Stan he found him easily, Stan's arms winding around him.

"I'll kill him," Stan said, crying now.

"No, dude, please. He's not worth it."

"He - you -"

"Let's just go, I want to go." Kyle took Stan's face in his hands and made him meet his eyes. Stan's were overflowing, his mouth pinching up like he was trying not to sob. "I'm okay," Kyle said, though he wanted to throw up again.

"You're shaking," Stan said, one sob escaping along with that observation.

"I just want to get out of here," Kyle said. "Please, God, just get me the eff out of here."

Stan did as Kyle asked, taking him out through the backyard so that they wouldn't attract attention. Stan had already said his goodbyes. Later, Kyle would have no memories of the walk home, only the suspicion that he was carried.

Stan's mother was still at the party, helping to clean up. Kyle was dimly aware of this as he vomited into the little desk trash can in Stan's room, not bothering to conceal the sound of it. Stan sat behind him on the floor, touching his back while Kyle took breaks to mop his forehead with one of Stan's dirty t-shirts. By the time Stan helped him to the bed a concrete foundation of shame was solidifying at the pit of Kyle's now-empty stomach. Stan had seen - something. Kyle was blurry on what actually happened, but he would never forget the press of Cartman's finger and how it had vaporized his confusion like a bucket of ice water thrown over his head. Stan had seen that, maybe. That moment. No wonder he was still crying a little.

Stan had taken Kyle's shoes off, and he'd removed his own, too, along with his tie and his uniform jacket, which was hanging over the back of his chair. They sat in silence for a while, Kyle curled against Stan's chest, shivering. Stan drew his fingers slowly through Kyle's hair, his breath hot on Kyle's forehead, right at his hair line.

"I shouldn't have left you," Stan said.

"I shouldn't have gotten so drunk," Kyle said.

"We should call the police," Stan said, nodding to himself. "He was trying-"

"Stan." Kyle didn't want to hear what Stan thought Cartman had been trying to do. "They're not gonna - I was so out of it, I barely said no." Kyle tried to remember if this was true; it didn't matter. "Anyway, nothing happened."

"Enough happened," Stan said. He squeezed Kyle against him so tightly that Kyle thought he might be able to sink into Stan's chest at last, to become him. He wanted to give up his body and live inside Stan's, where they could share every thought effortlessly, where they would always be so close. But this was good, too, being held as if he was a source of heat that Stan would die without. "I can't leave you here like this," Stan said.

"Like - what?"

"With him around. He's after you. I knew it. I always knew it."

"Jesus, you sound crazy," Kyle said. "I'm the drunk one." He actually felt very sober now, though there was a lingering confusion that was keeping him calm.

"I won't let anyone hurt you," Stan said, his lips moving on Kyle's forehead. "Least of all him."

"He can't hurt me," Kyle said. "I could have screamed, I could have bit him. I was just too out if it. It won't happen again - I won't drink while you're not here. How's that?"

"Are you sure you don't want to call the cops? I'd feel so much better if he was arrested, if he was in jail-"

"For what, groping a drunk boy at a party? He's not going to serve time for that, dude. Just - forget it. I just want to forget it ever happened. I mean, nothing really happened. I mean, Jesus."

They were quiet for a while, and Stan continued to draw his fingers through Kyle's hair at a steady pace. He seemed to be trying to soothe himself this way as much as Kyle, who was okay, really. Just the warmth of Stan's chest was enough of a comfort to make the rest of the world feel irrelevant.

Stan's mother arrived, and they heard her coming in. Kyle hoped she wouldn't come to Stan's bedroom door. She did, but only to linger outside without knocking or trying the knob, and after a few seconds she retreated to her own bedroom, weeping softly. Kyle's eyelids had begun to droop, and he found that the sound of Stan's heartbeat was even more captivating after he'd allowed his eyes to close.

"I will never let anything happen to you," Stan said, sounding very grave, as if he was vowing not to move from that spot for the rest of his life. Kyle would be agreeable to that. He nodded tiredly, his cheek pressed to the place on Stan's chest where he was almost soft but not quite. He could feel the pump of Stan's heartbeat against the delicate skin on his eyelid, and he thought of what Bebe had said as he was falling asleep, about Stan glowing and Kyle setting himself on fire. That seemed to make sense just before he went under.

They slept like that, Stan propped against the headboard and Kyle curled up in his lap, and when Kyle woke he felt creaky and diseased, like his stomach was rotting. He shifted and Stan woke, blinking down at him. Stan looked terrible; Kyle was sure he looked worse.

"Oh, fuck," Kyle said. The v-chip assisted in waking him fully. "What time do you have to leave?"

Stan checked the clock. "Not for an hour," he said. Kyle crawled out of Stan's lap, embarrassed that he'd slept there, embarrassed about everything that he could only vaguely remember about the night before. He reached for the glass of water on Stan's beside table, and they sat together in silence for a while, shoulders touching while they traded sips.

"I keep trying to be glad that you're not coming with me," Stan said.

"How's that going?" Kyle asked.

"Not great."

Kyle put his head on Stan's shoulder, and Stan leaned over to rest his cheek against Kyle's matted curls. Mostly they just sat like that while the minutes ticked away, staring at their outstretched legs while the light through the window brightened slowly. Kyle was almost glad for the hangover, and the lingering sense that something about him had been physically ruined forever. It fit the way he felt anyway, and he couldn't imagine anything worse than anticipating loneliness.

"It's just training," Stan said when he lifted his face from Kyle's hair. "I'll be back in a few months."

"Will you write to me?" Kyle asked.

"Dude, of course. You have to write to me, too. So I'll know you're okay."

"Oh, really? I was just going to collect your letters and never reply."

Stan elbowed him. "I'm really glad you'll be with Wendy at least."

"Yeah, she'll protect me in your stead."

"That's not what I meant."

"Yeah, it is." Kyle slid off the bed. "Ever since that kid knocked my teeth out you've treated me like sad little weakling. That's why I wanted to go with you, to show you I wasn't. So much for that." Kyle almost laughed out loud at his own lie; as if that had been why he wanted to go with Stan. But it would have been nice to save him from enemy fire once or twice.

"It's not that I think you're weak," Stan said. "It's just that it was traumatic for me, okay, seeing your mouth all bloody like that, your teeth knocked out-"

"I guess last night was traumatic for you, too, then." Kyle was standing at his dresser, where Stan had laid his tie out so it wouldn't wrinkle. Kyle touched it, waiting for Stan to figure out how to respond.

"Yes," Stan finally said, and Kyle turned to him.

"Are you worried about forgetting who you are?" Kyle asked. "Changing, or whatever? Like you said? Since I won't be there?" Kyle thought about it every day: that moment when Stan had told him why he wanted him along.

"I was," Stan said. "Now - after last night. I'm more worried about you."

"Jesus, you think I'm just going to roll over for Cartman once you're gone?" Kyle said, glowering. "I was drunk, okay, and he was on top of me before I knew what was happening-"

"Even if you were drunk, it wasn't your fault!" Stan said, and he got up from the bed. "And that's not what I mean, it's not just him. It's this place, South Park, the way things have - gotten. I hate the thought of you here alone."

"I won't be alone. I have Ike. I have Jimbo and Ned. And my dad," he said, less certainly. Gerald had been ghost-like since Sheila died.

"And Wendy," Stan said. "I really like the thought of you guys taking care of each other. Can you help me with that?"

"Wendy doesn't need taking care of," Kyle said. "She's okay on her own. And I am, too." He was aware that this was entirely unconvincing in the wake of a drunken meltdown over Stan's departure.

"I know you guys would be okay," Stan said. "But I think you could be happier if you were more like - friends. Just consider it, alright? For me?"

"Sure, fine," Kyle said. He turned away from Stan, touching his tie again. "I guess I might as well be friends with Wendy. It's not like there's anyone else left."

"And make sure Gregory doesn't try anything with her, alright?"

Kyle rolled his eyes so hard it tweaked his headache. "Sure, Stan. I'll give you weekly updates on his moves. If he stands too close to her, you'll hear about it in my letters."

Stan put his hands on Kyle's shoulders and turned him around, gently. Kyle gave him an angry stare; Stan laughed.

"Look," he said, and Kyle prepared himself for a speech about friendship or a promise that the two months would fly by. "I gotta get ready to leave," Stan said. "C'mon, I'll walk you out."

"Oh." Kyle frowned, confused. He'd somehow been thinking that he would walk Stan out, stand at the door and watch him go, but this was Stan's house. "Fine - alright."

It was a bright, warm morning, and both environmental factors made Kyle's hangover and attitude worse. He stood at the bottom of Stan's stoop and avoided Stan's eyes for as long as possible, surveying the yard, the street.

"Did you even sleep?" Kyle asked when he finally looked at Stan.

"A little," Stan said. "But it's okay. I wouldn't have been able to, anyway. I'm too nervous."

"About training camp?"

"Yeah. What if they're mean?"

"Well - of course they'll be mean, they're drill sergeants! Oh, God, they'll have a field day with Butters. And you better look out for Bebe, you know, guys will be ogling her."

"I think she'll be okay," Stan said.

"Oh, right. Bebe will be okay with those boobs in a freaking war zone, but poor, defenseless Kyle might not survive sitting on his ass in South Park-"

Stan grabbed him and hugged him, and Kyle was glad for the excuse to shut up. He hugged Stan like he wanted to hurt him with his affection, to make him really feel it, just short of actual suffering. Stan let him hold on for a long time.

"Where's your knife?" Stan asked when Kyle pulled back. Kyle was so delirious with dread that he had no idea what Stan was talking about. "The one I gave you for your birthday?"

"Oh." Kyle patted his pockets and found it. He carried it everywhere, but so far he'd only used it to cut the twine off of the packages that bore their rations. He pulled the knife out and showed it to Stan.

"Don't be afraid to use it," Stan said.

"What, on Cartman?" Kyle laughed. Stan didn't look amused.

"Exactly," Stan said. "Or anyone else who bothers you at the market. Try to go with Wendy when you go."

"Ugh," Kyle said. "Alright, I'm leaving. I - I'll write you," he said as he backed away.

"I know," Stan said. "Me too. Say goodbye to Pizza for me." Pizza was their code name for Ike. It had seemed ingenious when they were nine: when would they ever not have a reason to talk about pizza? Then all the delivery services went out of business, and mozzarella was a memory. The cheeses they got with their rations were hard, meant to last.

"Tell Butters I'm sorry for puking on his bedroom floor," Kyle said. They grinned at each other if this was a good memory, and Kyle turned around fast. It should have been like ripping off a band-aid, but he could feel Stan still back there, watching him go. He wouldn't let himself take a last look.

Two months wasn't so long. The next time they parted would be harder.

When he got home, he made brief small talk with Jimbo on the front stoop and hurried inside to shower. He'd thought he might cry, but he mostly felt tired. When he was clean he dressed and padded up to the attic. Ike was still asleep, which Kyle had fully expected. He crossed the room quietly and dropped into the bed, turning away from Ike and scooting back until the curve of their spines touched.

"What are you doing?" Ike mumbled after a few moments of quiet.

"Just let me lie here," Kyle said. "Just for a minute."

"Oh." Ike sighed. "Stan."

"It's just training. He'll be back in two months."

Ike rolled over and scooted down to press his face between Kyle's shoulder blades. He smelled terrible; he'd developed a bad habit of avoiding showers. Kyle didn't mind much at the moment.

Kyle slept, and he wasn't sure how long he'd been out when he heard the doorbell downstairs. Jimbo came up to tell him that Wendy had arrived.

"Are you alright?" Wendy asked when Kyle met her in the sitting room. He still felt like hell and he knew he looked it.

"I'm not up for volunteering today," he said. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Don't be so soft," Wendy said, and when Kyle glared at her she glared back. "Stan wanted us to do this together. You have no idea what he's about to go through-"

"Neither do you," Kyle said. "Unless you've been picking up volunteer shifts in the effing army."

"Wake up, Kyle," Wendy said. "I've been working with the Red Cross for years – I see what happens to soldiers. What can happen," she said, softening a little. "Just come with me. Maybe if we both do this as a gesture of fuck - ah-" She winced. Kyle was surprised; Wendy rarely slipped. "Of freaking karma or whatever, that'll double Stan's chances of coming back safe."

"You don't believe in things like that," Kyle said. He didn't, either, but he was already planning on getting his shoes and going with her. "Karma."

"I might believe in a lot of things in the coming months," Wendy said, standing. "Or years - you know he's enlisted for four years, don't you?"

"Stop," Kyle said, and he got up. "I'll come. Just don't talk to me."

"You're especially delightful," she said, following him to the foyer. "What's the matter, did you drink too much last night? You were swaying on your feet the last time I saw you."

"I'm fine," Kyle said. He sat down on the floor and shoved his shoes on. "Let's go."

The South Park Red Cross facility was in walking distance, just a few miles away. Jimbo still insisted on driving them, and he accompanied them into the building, hovering as Kyle filled out forms. Kyle expected a rigorous training routine - two months, perhaps - but he was brought directly into the medical ward and given menial tasks. There were dirty sheets to collect, lunch kits to pass out, and pills to fetch for long term patients. No one was moaning or leaking blood as Kyle had feared, but the quiet pall was almost worse. The fact that there was a video game station made Kyle's eyes well up for the first time since Stan had left. Two GIs were playing a boxing game while others who were gathered around watching, eating from their lunch kits. Most of the men in long term care were missing limbs.

"I don't see many women," Kyle said when he was helping Wendy make beds. He'd only spotted one woman, actually, on the small side and young, playing cards with a group near the video game station. She had a cast from her thigh to her foot and a bandaged ear.

"A lot of the women go home earlier," Wendy said. "Even if their injuries are severe – I'm not sure why. Maybe they're just less comfortable here than the men are. I wish we could afford a women's wing."

Kyle thought of Bebe: the way she'd led him to that bench, what she'd said when they sat there. He didn't really know her very well, really, but he felt certain that she would bolt from a place like this as soon as she could.

Gregory arrived about halfway through their shift, and just the sound of his voice renewed Kyle's headache. Kyle didn't have the same disdain for Gregory that Stan did, but he'd never enjoyed the guy's company.

"Kyle, I'm glad you're here," Gregory said, as if Kyle had reported to him specifically for duty. "How are you finding our facilities?"

"Fine," Kyle said. Gregory stared at him as if waiting for a more illuminating answer. It was a habit of his.

"I take it your beau has left for the war?" Gregory said to Wendy. She frowned and returned to the pillow she'd been fluffing.

"It's boot camp," she said. "Just a few hours away. Kyle - I was thinking, if Stan writes and gives us the okay, we should go up there for a visit. Surely they get some downtime."

"I don't know, Wends," Gregory said before Kyle could express his great enthusiasm for this plan. "I've heard boot camp is far more rigorous than it once was. They're strapped for soldiers, and-"

"I'm not saying it's a sure thing," Wendy said. "Just an idea." She walked away from them, her ponytail swinging behind her.

"Hmm, it's a sad day for Wendy," Gregory said. He turned to Kyle. "For you too, I suppose."

"No," Kyle said. He assumed it would be obvious that he was lying, but only because he looked like someone who hadn't slept for days. "We're proud of Stan. He'll do well."

"I heard you weren't able to join up yourself," Gregory said. "I'm sorry for you if such a thing was - important, to you."

"You know," Kyle said, jamming his fingers under the mattress of the bed he was working on, tucking in a sheet that smelled like bleach and felt like particle board. "Fuck off."

"Oh, well," Gregory said. "Fair enough." And he actually did fuck off, walking over toward the game area to organize an abandoned chess board. Kyle felt badly for being a dick, then annoyed with Gregory all over again for being capable of being so annoying and simultaneously sympathetic.

Toward the end of Kyle's shift he saw a familiar face, but he wasn't in one of the ward's beds. He walked in with the assistance of a cane, a patch over his right eye. It was Craig Tucker. Kyle hadn't spotted him since he'd showed up at the black market a few months back, patronizing the dry mushroom stall. Craig went straight for the pharmacist, muttered briefly and left with three bottles of pills.

"It's sad," Wendy said, appearing at Kyle's shoulder. She was watching Craig, too, but she looked more irritated than sad.

"Craig's – eye?" Kyle said when Wendy just stared at Craig, frowning.

"We used to think he was addicted to painkillers," Wendy said. She was whispering, but Craig was well out of earshot, limping toward the door with brisk determination. "But I've seen him – he sells the pills, you know. At the market."

"Ah." Kyle could hardly blame Craig for that; he was barely eighteen, one-eyed and crippled. Whatever the money he made on the black market bought him, it seemed to Kyle that he'd earned it. "Yeah – sad."

His shift at the Red Cross passed quickly, but as soon as he was home he realized he was starving. He made himself a mushroom soup with vegetable broth and brown rice, some instant "egg" stirred in. Before going to his room he checked on his father and Ike, asking if they'd eaten. Neither of them had; Kyle made baked potatoes with government cheddar and chives from the garden. He sat on the end of his father's bed while he ate.

"I don't want you feeling like you have to babysit me," Gerald said.

"I – don't." Kyle had been good at lying to his parents, once. Gerald shook his head and stabbed into the steaming flesh of the potato.

"Ike told me that Stan left today," he said.

"Well." Kyle felt dizzy; it wasn't as if he'd forgotten, but he'd pushed it far away, and he knew he would have to do that everyday if he intended to stay upright. "Yeah – he's. It's just training camp. What was it like for you?"

"Just a couple of days," Gerald said, shrugging. "Those were different times."

Days passed, and Kyle eventually came to realize that he was now managing the house. Even when his mother had been on tour she'd managed things from the road, calling to check in and leaving instructions for the staff. Kyle felt lost, and most of his time was divided between proving to Wendy that he could handle the germ-ridden reality of the Red Cross camp and making sure that his brother and father ate regular meals.

He was coming home from a shift at the Red Cross when he found Cartman hanging out on his stoop, smoking a cigarette with Ned. Jimbo was clearly unconcerned as they approached; anyone who had charmed Ned was okay with him.

"Hey, Kyle!" Cartman said, doing the fake-friendly thing that had made Kyle's skin crawl even when they were eight. Now – after – he felt it like a full body shudder, and he thought of the knife in his pocket. "You busy?" Cartman asked.

He was never busy. Someone as sickly intuitive as Cartman would know that. Kyle thought of asking Ned for a cigarette, just to prove – something – but he was afraid he would cough.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm busy, sorry." He hated that Ned and Jimbo were overseeing this. He felt like they knew.

"Oh, that's okay," Cartman said. He was smiling, but it wasn't for Kyle, not even mocking; he looked a bit frantic and scared, like some part of him was still afraid he would be punished for what he had done. They were obviously both thinking of it, Kyle's memories muddled and horrible, Cartman's possibly glossed over, self-forgiving. "I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime," Cartman said. It felt like blackmail, him asking this with an audience.

"I'll let you know," Kyle said, and he hurried into the house.

Again, he ended up in Ike's bed, but Ike was across the room this time, working on some switchboard modification for the house's beleaguered phone line. Kyle clung to Ike's pillow and tried to hate Stan for not sending him a letter yet.

Stan had sent a letter; it was dated the day he'd arrived in camp. For whatever reason – general security, censorship hurdles, lack of postal resources – Kyle didn't receive it until five days later. He kissed it all over just for being dated: Stan had wanted him to know that he wrote it right away.

_Dear Kyle,_

_Well, they shaved my hair off. That's okay, I knew they would. They even shaved Bebe's off. We're all in the same bunk: me, Butters, and Bebe. They put the girls in the same bunk! Everything is a little cramped and not really what I thought it would be. Not that bad, though. Not like the Canadians have it, they're really screwed. And the food isn't that bad, we had these frozen pizza things. When's the last time we had pizza, you know?_

_I'm so tired, I feel like I sound dumb. I thought I'd have these great things to say, you know? How are you? When you write to me you have use my registration number (it's in the return address) and letters will be delivered to me directly._

_I saved the bad news for last, and I hoped I'd be able to think of something else good or just normal to write before this, but I can't. They're shipping us out in a month and we don't get to come home first. Dude, I'm so sorry. I feel like you'll be mad at me about this, but I really didn't know. Tell Wendy I really didn't know._

_I'm glad they told us about that right away, though. Now at least we know._

_Aw, eff. I wish you were here._

_Love,_

_Stan_

Kyle sat in his backyard with the letter for a long time. He could smell the guards smoking cigarettes, could hear them muttering. It seemed like everyone who had a real job to do lived in another world, and Stan most of all. He was tempted to believe Stan was lying: he just wanted to spend all his leave time with Wendy! Maybe she'd talked him into it! He knew this wasn't the case, and when Wendy picked him up for their Red Cross shift the following morning he knew she'd received a similar letter. She didn't look as if she'd been crying but as if she'd been thinking, and as if the time she'd spent doing so had come to nothing.

"I should have joined up," she said.

"But you're a pacifist," Kyle said.

"Who told you that?" She gave him a look that made him think she might hit him. "No, that's stupid. I hate war, I hate violence – I hate this war specifically, this violence. But I'd kill anyone who hurt him," she said, grabbing the front of Kyle's shirt.

"Me, too!" Kyle said, feeling threatened.

"I know," she said, and she released him, patting his chest. "That's why I like you."

Kyle had never thought of Wendy as someone who liked him. They spent time together after their shifts, drinking wine sometimes, and Kyle thought of his promise to Stan about not drinking until he came back. That was before he'd known Stan might be gone for years, forever. He put his head on Wendy's shoulder sometimes, and sometimes she put her head on his. They both knew the other was thinking of Stan. It was why they couldn't bear to be around anyone else: anyone who wasn't always thinking about him was ridiculous, missing the point.


	3. Chapter 3

September 14

Dear Stan,

Not until I picked up a pen to write this did I realize that I haven't written in a letter in like five years. Everyone who I wanted to talk to was always just - around. With the exception of my mother. Who would call on the phone.

So, this is awkward already. I guess I'll just tell you what's been going on here.

First of all, Wendy is doing fine and has not been responsive to Gregory's advances, which aren't advances so much as douchey overtures. All three of us have been volunteering pretty much every day, I guess because there is nothing else to do. I always feel like the soldiers who are recovering must hate me, because of my mom or because I'm not sacrificing like they have. I asked Gregory if he ever feels this way and he laughed. He says he feels pity for the human race for not being able to let go of our primal warrior urges or some crap like that. I stopped listening like halfway through.

Writing this is making me miss you worse. Could we talk on the phone, maybe? Wendy has probably already told you, but we had this idea about driving up to FoCo and visiting you, if that would be allowed. So, let me know, or her. Maybe me and her could come at different times so it wouldn't be awkward having me there when you wanted to be alone with Wendy etc.

I'm still paying Karen McCormick to clean our house. Really hoping she doesn't find that pizza. The pizza has been kind of indiscreet lately, and less responsive to authority. Of course, the only person trying to assert authority over the pizza these days is me, because my father is pretty much comatose with grief. He keeps listening to old records from when he and my mom were dating. Do you have any grieving parent advice?

Please tell me everything you can about life on the base. I'm constantly trying to picture your day to day activities and having trouble with it.

I'm sorry it took me a week to write back, but I was really upset to find out you won't be coming home. I hope you can have visitors. You can't just leave, dude. Right?

I keep catching myself thinking you're already up north. I can't believe you're only two hours away.

Ugh I think that's enough for now. Write back really really quickly. Please.

Love,

Kyle

 

________________

September 17

Kyle! I got your letter today. It's so funny how I could hear your voice in it, like a recording was playing. Do I sound like me in my letters? I feel kind of stupid writing them, too, but reading them is great.

Thanks for the Wendy report. She's only written me twice so far, and neither letter mentioned Gregory, which isn't necessarily a good sign because I know she sees him all day every day. And now he's hanging out with you all the time, too, so I hate him that much more. Speaking of people we hate, is Cartman bothering you? Tell Wendy if he is. She'll waste him.

Okay, to address your questions:

1) Grieving parents - Well, I was grieving pretty hardcore at the time, too. Are you letting yourself grieve? You've been kinda closed up since it happened. I mean, not to me, but to everyone else. You know? I can totally picture your face as you read this, and you're scowling hatefully, aren't you? I actually hope you are, because I like being able to anticipate when you'll scowl hatefully.

Mostly you can't really do anything except be there and make sure they eat. Just let him listen to the records and mope around and hopefully someday he'll feel like he can function again. You're really capable and stuff so I think he feels okay letting you handle things on your own. With me, I was pretty psycho with rage after my dad died, so my mom had to take care of me and I think that distracted her from what she was going through herself, in a good way.

As for your pizza, don't let it push you around. A pizza of that age is prone to displays of aggression and independence. Especially since your dad is not really interested in pizza right now. Remind the pizza that you love and support it, even if it lashes out at you in response. Then tell it to get over itself. Everybody's got problems.

2) My day to day life at camp - It's not as exciting as you may think. Our whole day is planned out for us, every minute accounted for, and we just do what we're told. When it's getting me down I try to think about how my dad went through this, too, though I guess things were a little different back then.

Basically it's like: get up, run laps until you feel like you're gonna vomit, devour breakfast while sweaty, drills (like target practice, combat), scarf lunch (the food is not that good but you're always so hungry and also just glad to be sitting down for a whole ten minutes, so every meal seems like the best one you've ever eaten), more drills, chores, dinner, more chores, showers and bed. Showering with others is not my favorite activity. Especially because Butters gets picked on so I have to kind of watch out for him (so then they pick on me and call me his boyfriend, hur hur), but he can't just shower quick and get out like a normal person, he stands there chatting about all this stuff and dragging it out. Having to be near Butters' wang while he talks about the dream he had about riding a dragon is torture, Kyle.

Well, I hope you laughed, because now here's the bad news. We're not allowed to have visitors or make non-emergency phone calls. They said they'd make an exception if I was going to propose marriage to someone, so what do you think? Will you marry me?

No, but seriously, I'm thinking about asking Wendy. That way I could see her one more time before I leave (in only two weeks, now they're saying. It keeps getting shorter), and also she'd know that I'm serious about her and to not let Gregory get to her while I'm gone. Let me know your thoughts on this ASAP, because it's a pretty major decision.

I

wish

you

were

here

so much.

Every day, Kyle. Just writing your name makes me sad.

WRITE BACK IMMEDIATELY, don't wait a week just because you're pissed at me for not being able to come home. Please please please.

Your loving pal,

Stanley

 

________________

September 19

Stanley,

Just read your letter and am immediately composing a response, per your request.

Well, okay. This Wendy idea. Here are my thoughts: (1) Wendy is very sensitive to bullcrap, so you'd better really mean this proposal if you're going to do it, and not just use it as an excuse to have sex with her one more time before you leave for the front; (2) although it makes me sick to admit this, going to war will probably change you. At least a little. How can you be sure that you'll still want to get married right away when you return? Is it fair to Wendy to assume that your feelings about settling down won't have changed at all?; (3) you might want to suggest this to Wendy as a ruse that you're both complicit in. Tell the army you're proposing, get down on one knee, do the whole thing, but have an understanding with Wendy that, while you will probably want to marry her eventually, this is just a practice proposal for the sake of a conjugal visit; and (4) you've never had any experience with another woman (have you?). Are you sure that Wendy is The One? You're under no obligation to marry your high school sweetheart. You described this decision as "pretty major. It is extremely major, Stan.

Alright, now I've gotten that out of the way. Writing it all out was a useful distraction from the rage that is growing in me over the knowledge you can't have phone calls or visitors unless future matrimony is involved. If Wendy doesn't like the idea of a fake proposal, you could offer one to me for the sake of a real goodbye. Ha ha.

You didn't really ask me how things are going with me or anything, so I don't really know what to say next. I guess it would be boring if I described my day. Cleaned bed pans, restocked gauze, played cards with my favorite soldier, lunch with Wendy and Gregory on the lawn (Gregory bought a triangle of brie from the black market, it was amazing), arranged the afternoon movie for the patients, cleaned more bed pans, gave someone who's lost his hands a sponge bath, awkward moment with Craig Tucker, then I walked home and found your letter.

Sorry to hear about Butters' wang. I'm surprised he has one, actually. Seems like he'd have one of those action figure smooth plastic crotches.

Mail man is coming in like five minutes so I guess I'll just end this here.

I think about you constantly. And yes, you sound like 'you' in your letters.

Love,

Kyle

 

________________

September 21

Are you mad at me? Stop being mad at me, Kyle. It's no fair, when I'm not there to defend myself.

LIKE:

I'm sorry I forgot to ask you to tell me about your day! I thought you just understood that I want to hear everything. Like, who is this 'favorite soldier' person? I thought I was your favorite soldier. Does he have hands? Is the guy without hands nice? Did Gregory make you chip in for the brie (I had to ask Bebe what brie is)? What happened with Craig that was awkward? These are just a few of the questions I had while reading what you wrote. KYLE, TELL ME EVERYTHING. There, now you have it in writing.

I think Wendy would be insulted by a fake proposal. I don't want to marry someone who I haven't known forever, and she's the only person who I've known forever who I'd ever want to marry (other than you, but you're a boy). Do you know what I mean? It's like, who am I going to meet who's better than Wendy? No one, probably. Do you even think she'd say yes? I've always kinda worried that she wouldn't, but since I'm leaving for war maybe I'll get some sympathy credit.

Kyle Kyle Kyle Kyle. This time around writing your name is more enjoyable. Not sure why. I think about you constantly, too. Every situation I'm in, I'm going, in my head, 'well here's what Kyle would do/think/say.' And I'm exactly right in every case, just so you know.

Don't even try to act like you don't know that I have a million questions I want to ask you. How is that pizza? How is Karen McCormick at cleaning? She wrote to Kenny and described you as "nice." I don't know if I agree with that assessment. Do you see yourself as "nice?" I like that you're not that nice. You're more like, honest and fair.

Nobody here is nice. It's a big joke that me and Butters are "in love" and I'm sick of it. Like I even care if these idiots think I'm gay. Just not for Butters, please. It's so insulting. Butters is not thriving. He broke down crying and confessed to me that he's gay for Cartman. I was like, "duh." But I said it nicely. I think I'm nice, Kyle, don't you?

If I do the marriage proposal thing with Wendy, you should drive her. By my calculations I would be able to see you from the guest parking lot and we could wave at each other through the fence.

I would really like to see you. Send pictures.

Putting this in the mail now, because it's effing urgent.

I LOVE YOU, KYLE BROFLOVSKI. Be nicer to me.

-Your adoring Stan

 

________________

September 25

I don't know whether to be amused or alarmed by the fact that, based on your last correspondence, you seem to be going slightly insane. I guess I should say I'm not surprised. Your letter made me sort of insane with happiness, but it was brief, because after I finished reading what you'd written I was smiling at someone who was not actually present.

I've learned through Wendy that she's been granted a visitation permit next week. I take it this means you will be proposing to her at that time, against my advice. I just want that on record: against my advice. She suspects nothing; your story about a loophole in the visitation requirements flew with her. Surprisingly? Hmm. I think she's just out of her mind with excitement at the chance to see you. Anyway, I will drive her. Perhaps me and you could shout loudly enough to actually say hello to each other from the opposite sides of this fence.

Sorry I was so petulant about not being asked about my day or whatever. I'm in a weird place right now, Stanley. On to your questions:

My favorite soldier at the center is a 32 year old woman named Stephanie. I think she reminds me of my mother. She has a neck injury and has trouble controlling the volume of her voice (seeing the resemblance yet?) I've told her about you. She seems to think you'll be okay as long as you're not sent to the Wyoming/Montana border or upstate New York. So don't get sent to those places. And yes, she has hands.

The guy who does not have hands is not particularly nice, nor would I expect him to be. He's young, like 25. There's so little money available for prosthetics for injured soldiers. I never realized this was a problem until I started volunteering here. I guess we were really pretty sheltered from the realities of the war while we were in school.

Gregory did not make me chip in for the brie, but he made some passive aggressive comments about how much it cost. I ignored them and ate slightly more than my share.

Craig, oh Lord. What about Craig isn't awkward. He comes to the center on a regular basis to refill his prescriptions, then sells the pills for exorbitant prices on the black market. He's actually making quite a lot of money, I've heard, and he's opened his own booth where he employs Tweek to sell coffee that is laced with amphetamines. It's very popular stuff. I have not tried it yet myself. Anyway, the awkward moment in question took place as he was leaving with his latest bounty of pills and I was coming in with an arm load of freshly laundered blankets (I'm trying to paint a vivid picture here, don't laugh). As you know, Craig walks with a cane, and, barely being able to see over the pile of blankets, I nearly crashed into him, causing him to swerve, falter, and almost fall over. It was terrible, actually more heartbreaking than awkward, and, me being an idiot, I did not set the blankets down to help him because all I could think about was not wanting to get them dirty. Anyway, he steadied himself and toddled off, muttering about clumsy effers.

Of course I know what you mean about wanting to marry someone you've known forever. It's our small town mentality. We don't trust outsiders. I don't, anyway. Gregory is still suspect, as far as I'm concerned. Are you seriously asking me if Wendy will accept your proposal? She will. She loves you. She's a wreck without you. It's actually making me angry, the idea that you could wonder about this. But you asked me not to be mad at you, so I won't be.

Now, the most important part of the letter. Am I nice. I am nice to Karen McCormick, yes. She doesn't do a great job cleaning - forgets to wipe down the cabinet fronts in the kitchen, does not dust thoroughly, and has broken our vacuum. I'm nice about all of these things because she's a trembling little mouse whose mother will most likely end up working with Cartman's before the war is over. Am I nice to other people: no, for the most part. I'm not even nice to you, my favorite person.

You, however, are nice. You're saintly. If you've ever hurt anyone I'm sure it was unintentional. You're the kind of person who rescues insects from windowsills and releases them into the wild. Even the gross ones (like me).

That seems like a good place to stop. I think I've read your last letter 200 times. I love it when you're exasperated in print.

Looking forward to seeing you through (over?) a fence. In the meantime, I'm enclosing several old pictures of the two of us. These are incredibly precious to me, so please don't let them get singed in battle or anything. Don't let anything on your person become singed.

I could try to be nicer to you, but would you really want that? You said so yourself: you like it when I scowl hatefully on cue.

Love,

Your number one fan (yes, of course you're my favorite soldier),

Kyle

 

________________

September 27

Hey dude, I am starting to feel kind of nervous about this whole proposal thing. Do you think the army will get mad at me if I chicken out at the last minute? I'm glad you'll be there, anyway, even if you can't stand next to me while it happens.

Thanks for answering my questions. There is one big question that you still haven't answered, though: is Cartman bothering you? Don't be afraid to tell me if he is. I will sick Wendy on him so hard. I still have bad dreams about that night at the party. Do you? I hate him so much. As soon as I get home I'm going to pick up where I left off, punching-wise. Surprised he's not doing some black market shadiness like Craig is.

Man, good for Craig, though, really. He got a raw deal. Bebe has been going to church services here to pray for Clyde, and I've been going with her. Butters comes, too, to pray for Cartman's wiener, I guess. How could anyone be into that? I hope Cartman never finds out. He'd just use it to get Butters to do more of his dirty work.

I'm glad your other favorite soldier is a lady. Is she pretty? Wait, you said she reminds you of your mom, so I guess it's not a love connection. Sad about the guy with no hands. I bet you've seen a lot of sad stuff. But don't worry about me, I'm fine.

You're nice to me, Kyle, you are. Or maybe that's the wrong word. You treat me right. Hahaha.

I'm having a not great day today. Just tired and bored and I feel really lonely, though there are people everywhere and you can't even get a moment alone to sit on the toilet. Also it's getting really cold early this year, did you notice?

I miss you. I'm looking at the pictures you sent. I'm totally not crying or anything.

Write back soon.

Love,

Stan

 

________________

September 30

It makes no sense that it should take your letters three days to get here! Not that I'm blaming you. I know they have to comb through everything and make sure there's nothing top secret being said. None of yours have been censored yet, by the way.

Well, in two days we'll be there for this proposal, unless you've called it off in a letter to Wendy. I keep catching myself thinking that they'll actually marry you then and there. They won't, will they? I hope not. That would be a depressing setting for a wedding.

I hate it when you cry, don't cry. It's hard to hear that you're feeling bad and not being able to do anything about. Maybe second thoughts about this proposal have something to do with it? You really don't have to go through with it, Stan. Don't allow yourself to feel trapped.

I ignored your concerns about Cartman because you suggested sicking Wendy on him, which is just a little insulting, Stan. I can handle that idiot myself. What happened was a drunken mistake by me, because I should have bitten or screamed or done anything other than lie there like a stunned turtle. I'm sorry you're having bad dreams, but please don't worry. Cartman is busy with black market schemes (he has his own booth now, too, and I bet you can guess what he's selling) and he's of no concern to me.

Now for my big news: Karen has discovered the pizza. I suspect the pizza itself had something to do with this. She's promised not to slice the pizza up and spread it around town, but I'm more worried about how well she's getting along with the pizza, despite the pizza being basically non-human in its communication skills. I guess it's just a case of a lonely girl meeting a lonely pizza, but I'm really alarmed by this.

I think I'm probably also jealous. It wouldn't be so bad if someone appeared and lifted the lid off my pizza box. So to speak.

I cannot wait to see you from across a parking lot, through a fence. I'm also bringing you a care package that Wendy will deliver.

But if you want to call the whole thing off, you should!

Love,

Kyle

________________

October 3

Dear Kyle,

I just reread your last letter to make sure I remembered everything you talked about, and the last thing you said was that I should call off the proposal. Well, I went through with it. As you know. What did you and Wendy talk about on the drive back?

I'm glad I got to see you, even though you were kinda quiet and I was on the verge of puking from nerves. Had you seriously forgotten about the buzz cut? Your eyes were so wide when you first saw me. It's not even as short as it was when they first did it! I wish you could have seen Bebe. She's kinda working it. Butters is not, he looks like an overlarge baby.

So, I'm engaged. I don't feel different. I guess cause there's a lot of other things going on. Like I got my deployment. It's to the Wyoming border. Butters and Bebe will be on my squadron, and Kenny, too. He's all raring to go. He's gotten kind of weird. I think they might make him a sniper after his first tour, because he's really good with a gun.

Don't say that stuff about it being your fault. That wasn't your fault. He's evil, Kyle, and you shouldn't underestimate him. Don't even tell me what he's selling at the black market, it'll just piss me off.

I still can't believe it about pizza, but I'm kind of happy for it. Just make sure pizza wraps its pepperoni before it does anything crazy. I can tell you where the pepperoni wrappers vendor is at the market if you'd like.

It was so weird and good to see you. It all went by too fast. So much for a conjugal visit.

I don't know what else to say, sorry, I'm a little effed up about shipping out in a week. I feel like I just got here.

Write back and tell me everything you've done since you last saw me.

Love,

Stan

_________________

October 7

Stan,

First of all, a big part of your last letter got redacted, so there's a whole paragraph that just reads "So, I got engaged. I don't feel different." And then a huge black chunk of secrecy. I'm really intrigued about what's under there, and why the army would be censoring your feelings about your engagement. There was also a part toward the end about you being "effed up" about something, and that remains a mystery, too.

I'm sorry I was quiet. It wasn't just the hair; you looked older. I guess just because of the increased muscle mass. How did that happen so fast? I'm jealous. It was really good to see you, and I'm sorry I was weird and touched your fingers. I don't know, whatever. I was overwhelmed by the whole thing, that effing fence, the idea of you as someone's husband.

On the way back, Wendy and I were silent for the most part. We've become pretty good friends, maybe she's told you, but that day we just wanted to be alone with our thoughts.

I didn't realize you were doing business with a pepperoni wrapper vendor at the market, though I guess I'm not surprised. It's sad that you couldn't have a conjugal visit, but you'll have some leave time after your first tour, right? God, why am I talking about the next time you'll stick your (wrapped, I would think) pepperoni into your fiancee, okay, moving on.

Everything I've done since you saw me: drove back to South Park, dropped Wendy off, returned to the house to find Karen McCormick giggling conspiratorially with pizza (please do tell me where to purchase pepperoni wrappers), cooked dinner - oh, Stan, this is boring already. Aren't you leaving for the front soon? Have they told you where you're going yet?

Jimbo has been asking about you. I think it would be a nice gesture if you wrote to him.

Congratulations on your engagement, by the way. I think I forgot to say that in person. Frankly I don't even know what came out of my mouth aside from comments about your buzz cut. Yes, I had really forgotten. I pictured you as you were, not as some theoretical soldier.

What else, Jesus. It feels strange all over again, writing to you, now that I've seen you again in person. Oh, I had another run in with Craig the other day. He asked about you, actually, but he really wanted information on Bebe. It was a very odd conversation. I feel badly, because I don't think he has any friends, and surely he wants someone he can talk to about what happened to him. Should I reach out to him, or is that asking for derisive laughter in my face?

Stay safe and write again soon. Sorry again about how I was in person. It's always been hard for me to acknowledge our differences. I tend to think I'm so like you, that we have so much in common, and then I get these reminders that we're miles apart in terms of like, everything.

I hope you're feeling better. I wish I could just sit with you and talk for a few hours. I'd do anything for that right now.

Love,

Kyle

____________________

October 10

Hey dude, don't say we don't have anything in common. We have lots in common. It's just hard to define. We see the world the same way, you know?

Sorry stuff got blacked out. It wasn't about my engagement, anyway, and I was stupid to think that what it was about would get through. I forgot to ask you how Gregory reacted to finding out me and Wendy are engaged. Tell me!

You might not hear from me for a while, but don't worry. Keep sending the letters to the same address and they'll get passed on to me eventually, wherever I am.

Don't be sorry that you were quiet or about the finger touching. I liked the finger touching. You know I'm pretty touchy in general, so don't ever feel bad about grabbing me. I wanted to grab you that day. I guess I was overwhelmed, too. I didn't even think about the fact that I'll be a "husband." Huh. And yeah, I'll be wrapping my pepperoni for at least another five years. I guess by then I'll have some army pay banked and I might actually be able to afford a kid. I don't want to have one until the war ends, though, you know?

About Craig, man, I wouldn't bother. I don't like the idea of you becoming friends with him, even if it's the right thing to do. I don't trust him. But back to pepperoni: the condom/birth control vendor sets up near the back left exit, usually, and it's a total rip off but you gotta do what you gotta do. I guess we never did talk about me and Wendy going all the way or whatever. I'll tell you about it if you want? Probably not in a letter, though.

I wrote to Jimbo. It's always been hard for me to talk to him, though I guess we're close in a way? Since my dad died, anyway. Give him a hug for me, if you're cool with hugging him. I told him to give you one for me.

I wish we could sit together and talk, too. Especially now, I really need it. I want to write out everything I'm feeling but I hate the way it looks on paper, you know?

I'm carrying the pictures you sent me in my front pocket all the time. I think they'll be good luck.

Take care of yourself, and don't worry too much.

Love,

Stan

________________

October 13

Stan,

Today is Friday the 13th and I have the worst feeling. I can't put my finger on it, but of course I assume it has something to do with you being in danger. You can't tell me not to worry, that's cruel.

I guess we have things in common, but it's more history than personality, you know? It's a good thing, really, because I could never get along with someone who shares a personality with me.

Gregory: he's been very congratulatory toward Wendy re: the engagement, but I can tell he's hurting. Maybe not because he feels like he could make Wendy happier himself, but just because he's lost some part of himself to her, and she's giving that part of him, unknowingly, to someone else. I have an eye for that kind of hurt. It's actually making me like him, and we went to see that 'Hummingbird' movie together. Wendy's always said that he's gay. I suppose you know by now that I am.

I should crumble this up or burn it, but there it is. I have a horrible feeling that it will be a very long time before I see you again, and I don't want you to think I don't trust you with what I'm sure you already know.

Now I'm shaking like crazy, check out this bad penmanship. I think I will send this, though.

Don't tell me about you and Wendy, anyway. I got some condoms for Ike and he laughed, then turned pink in a way that makes me fear it's too late. They're only children, it's insane, but the war has made us all grow up fast.

I have to stop this here or I'll never have the balls to put it in the mail.

Love,

Kyle

________________

November 1

Kyle, I'm sorry it's been so long, things here are not how I thought they would be. There's no stuff for writing or mailing. It took me forever to get this pen and I don't know how long it will take this letter to get to you or if you've written me anything since I left. Butters and Bebe are here with me, and we try to keep each other warm. Kenny was killed three days ago, maybe Karen will have told you by the time you read this. I want to see you again someday so I can try to describe what's happened. I can't write it here.

I think my mother is still out of town on Red Cross business, but if you see her please tell her I'm okay. Are you okay? I still have our pictures, no burns on them. Love, Stan

_________________

December 24

Dear Stan,

I don't know if this will ever reach you, or if my last letter has. I've been in turmoil for months over your lack of response, and now I hate myself for how petty and self-pitying I've been. I've just received your letter dated November 1 and this gritty scrap you wrote it on terrifies me. I'm terrified for you.

We've had air raids here; the movie theater and that whole strip of shut-down stores was bombed. I'm still volunteering, and we had a new influx of patients around Thanksgiving. It's so overcrowded and sometimes I don't go home until eleven o'clock.

The pizza is gone. Karen, too. They left a note telling us not to worry. My father is inconsolable. I try not to think about it. There's so much work to be done, and I've been very determined to lose myself in it in the weeks and months without word from you.

I actually took heart in Wendy telling me she hadn't heard from you either, though I thought she might be lying to save my feelings. I'm such a coward, an idiot, and I should die a thousand times before you suffer a moment's discomfort. Wendy has always been braver than me, and she's certain that we'll hear from you soon. I find her crying sometimes, but she always pushes me away and pretends I'm imagining it.

Kenny's remains have not been returned, so far as I know. I could have sworn I saw him in town just two weeks ago, filling up an unfamiliar truck at a gas station, but I suppose I've just gone a little crazy.

Stan, what will happen? I wish someone could tell me. I wish I could even know that you'll read this.

I want you back here where you belong. This is madness and I'm done with it.

Love,

Kyle

________

February 2

Stan, I know I'm spitting into the wind, but I had to write something. Clyde Donovan appeared in the field hospital today, battered but intact. Alive all this time, surviving just outside of enemy territory, finally able to make it as far south as the last outpost in California. I took it as a miracle, and I was only briefly glad for it, because how many miracles can one town hope to have? I wanted that one reserved for you, just in case.

I spoke to your mother on the phone (she's serving in Virginia) and she said she'd had no news of you. How can they leave us with nothing for months? This is hell.

Come back.

Love,

Kyle


	4. Chapter 4

Though he was the only survivor from his missing platoon, Clyde's return seemed to lift the spirits of everyone at the Red Cross center, and Kyle tried not to resent Clyde for not being Stan. He could see that Wendy was struggling with this, too. Clyde was weak but mostly unharmed. He still had all of his limbs, and his mental facilities seemed intact. Angrily, Kyle thought that Clyde was the perfect soldier: he was too dense to actually internalize any of the brutality he'd seen. Stan was the opposite. Kyle had to remind himself daily that it was inaccurate to think of Stan as "lost" just because he hadn't written. There had been no news reports about an entire platoon disappearing.

"I just heard about Kenny," Clyde said when Kyle came to serve him his lunch. "Jesus." Clyde stared down at his pimento cheese sandwich as if he wasn't sure what to do with it. "He was in Bebe's platoon, Wendy said. I can't effing believe she joined up."

"Why?" Kyle asked. "She's no delicate flower."

"That's not what I meant," Clyde said. "I just thought she'd still be here when I got home. That whole time, I was imagining-" He trailed off and picked at the crusts on his sandwich.

"Sorry," Kyle said. "I wrote to Stan this morning, telling him you were here, so if he's with Bebe he'll tell her."

"If he is?" Clyde said. "You haven't heard from him-"

"In months," Kyle said, shortly. He didn't want to discuss it. "His mother thinks he was sent to the Wyoming border, but we don't know for sure. Things there—" Kyle stopped himself, not wanting to pretend he could know what things there were like. "I think you have a visitor," he said when he looked up and saw Craig hurtling toward them, thumping the floor with his cane as he came.

"Craig!" Clyde called out, as if there was a dense crowd between them.

"I heard the rumors in the market and I-" Craig seemed to be holding back tears, something Kyle never expected to witness. He got out of the way before Craig could fall onto Clyde's bed, letting his cane clatter to the floor. Craig grabbed for Clyde with a sharp inhale of breath, and Clyde embraced Craig with the same desperation, smiling onto Craig's shoulder. Kyle turned to busy himself with stripping the linens off the neighboring bed. Craig was weeping softly, Clyde was shushing him, and Kyle found the whole thing embarrassing. It made his eyes sting to imagine that he might receive Stan this way.

"Your eye?" Clyde said.

"It's nothing," Craig said, his voice muffled, buried against Clyde's sleeve. "You're here."

Kyle left them to their reunion, bringing the stripped linens to the laundry area. Wendy was there folding towels, unfurling them with an angry snap as she pulled them from the dryer.

"Well," she said. "If Clyde's okay." She stopped there, and Kyle didn't need her to continue. He knew she'd meant to say that if Clyde was okay after disappearing for months, Stan certainly would be. He knew, too, that she was aware how unlikely it was for one small town to get even one happy ending for its returning soldiers.

"Craig is out there with him now," Kyle said. "It must be so weird for them to see each other, after. All that."

Wendy gave no response except to continue snapping towels into order, and Kyle was actually glad for the approach of Gregory, who stood watching Wendy's progress with the towels for a moment before speaking.

"Kyle, I wonder if you'd help me with the lunches," he said. "I'm afraid Annie is late for her shift."

"Fine," Kyle said, and he touched Wendy's shoulder before leaving. It was unfair for her to be anything but relieved by Clyde's safe return, but Kyle appreciated it when Wendy's irrational rage aligned with his own. It only ever happened where Stan was concerned.

"Since we're celebrating today, I thought I'd give them something special," Gregory said as they walked toward the kitchen area. "I bought some cookies at the market. With my own money, of course."

"Of course," Kyle said. "That was nice of you."

"Well, part of my duty here is to see to their emotional needs, and, odd as it sounds, something as simple as the addition of a cookie to a lunch tray can go a long way toward satisfying some people."

"Some people," Kyle said, because Gregory seemed to be excluding himself from this group that could be so easily cheered. Gregory shrugged.

"The downtrodden," he said.

"Do you ever feel downtrodden?" Kyle asked. "About the war?"

"My God, what a question," Gregory said. "Yes, every day. It's the great tragedy of our generation."

"I mean on a personal level."

"What could be more personal than seeing most of my former classmates crippled or struck down by battle?" Gregory asked, and he stopped walking, peering down at Kyle with a frown. Gregory was taller than him by several inches. Kyle wanted to push him over.

"Never mind," Kyle said. "Let's just - onward to the cookies."

"I know you're a bit preoccupied these days, like Wendy," Gregory said as they entered the kitchen. "About Stan Marsh."

"Why do you always say his full name?" Kyle asked, muttering. He went to the lunch trays, not really wanting an answer to that.

"Definitive news from the north has been sparse, I know," Gregory said. "It's disconcerting, but it doesn't mean certain doom."

"Don't talk to me about certain doom," Kyle said. He turned to see Gregory opening the bag of gingersnaps he'd gotten from the market, sniffing them.

"I hope they're not too stale," he said.

"Try one and find out."

"Here, we'll split one," Gregory said, and he lifted one from the bag. He halved it very carefully, and the cookie split almost precisely down the middle. They watched each other while they chewed, and Kyle suspected Gregory felt guilty, too. Rations had diminished around Christmastime, and Kyle hadn't had anything frivolous in months. "Still snappy," Gregory said, and he hurried to add the cookies to the lunch trays.

The men and women in the ward did seem grateful for the cookies as Kyle made the rounds delivering lunches. Stephanie, the only soldier he'd really befriended, had left to stay with family in Denver weeks before, and he missed her as he moved amongst the beds, still wondering what the others thought of him. The only one who'd made a point of telling Kyle what he thought of him was the soldier who'd lost his hands. It had taken Kyle some time to recognize his old playmate, the boy from a neighboring county who had thought he could save Terrance and Philip from execution when they were all too young to know better.

"What the hell is this?" Christophe asked when Kyle set a lunch tray in his lap.

"Food," Kyle said. He'd become accustomed to Christophe's surliness, and he could hardly blame him for it. The prosthetic hand that was supposed to be provided for him had been on backorder since October.

"What are you serving me, cookies? Am I six years old? The government is spending money to treat us like toddlers?"

"Those are special gift from Gregory," Kyle said, smiling at the expression that followed. Christophe loathed Gregory more than any of the volunteers, and made no attempt to conceal this.

"If that prick wants to do me a favor he can light a cigarette and stick it in my mouth," Christophe said. "Cookies." He mumbled some curses in French.

"I'll eat yours if you don't want them," Kyle said, and he sat down on the bed. Though Christophe had told Kyle exactly what he thought of him and his dead bitch mother more than once, Kyle was the only volunteer other than Wendy who Christophe would actually take food from.

"God," Christophe said, speaking with his mouth full and watching something across the room. Kyle turned to see that he was staring at Craig, who was still sitting on Clyde's bed and still crying, his hands on Clyde's cheeks. "Are those two going to fuck right here in the ward?"

"Don't be a jerk," Kyle said. He envied Christophe's ability to say 'fuck' without flinching in pain. Veterans could elect to have their v-chips removed, but it was a dangerous surgery that could result in serious brain damage. Christophe was either fearless or felt that he had nothing to lose, or both. "They're best friends," Kyle said, turning to look at Clyde and Craig again. "They thought they'd lost each other."

"I think it's more than that for the one with the eye patch," Christophe said.

"Oh, please," Kyle said, though he suspected that was true. Even before the war, Craig had trailed after Clyde in a way that made Kyle wonder. "Leave them alone. They're happy. People are still allowed to be happy."

"Psh," Christophe said. "Anyone who can be happy living in this hell God has thrust us into is blind, a fool, and will be sorry he let his guard down. Give me one of those cookies."

"You changed your mind?" Kyle said, snapping one in half.

"I'm still hungry," Christophe said sourly, and he sucked the cookie from Kyle's fingers, crunching it angrily. "Here he comes," he said when Gregory approached the bed. "Looking for a pat on the back."

"Doing alright today?" Gregory asked, standing at the foot of Christophe's bed with his hands clasped behind his back. He was pretty unflappable, but Kyle sometimes got the impression that he was afraid of Christophe.

"Oh, yes, I'm doing quite well," Christophe said. "As you can see, I regrew my hands, and I'm not sitting here getting spoon fed like an infant by monsieur clown hair."

"Don't call me that," Kyle said. Gregory just fidgeted for a moment and walked away, sighing.

"What the hell is wrong with him?" Christophe asked. "He wants everyone to be smiles and rainbows so he can feel better about spending thirty dollars on a bag of cookies?"

"I guess he just thinks he knows everything," Kyle said. "He means well, though, in terms of the cookies. You want the other one?"

"Yes," Christophe said, frowning, and Kyle fed it to him. "Tell him to bring me cigarettes next time," Christophe said, still chewing. "I'm serious, red."

"My name's Kyle, and this is a non-smoking ward."

"Fuck you, Kyle, and do I look like I care about your do-gooder policies?"

"No, I guess you don't." Kyle dabbed the crumbs from the corners of Christophe's lips and got a snarl in exchange. Every time Kyle wanted to walk away and demand that Wendy deal with him from now on he tried to picture Stan made helpless like this, dependent on a volunteer in a Red Cross camp. Then he would try desperately not to picture that at all.

Wendy stayed late at the center and Kyle walked home alone, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Someone had stolen his last pair of good gloves. He was pretty sure it was Annie, actually. The winter had been harsh so far, and gas and electricity were increasingly unstable. Kyle worried about Ike every day, and felt guilty for having stripped the blankets from Ike's attic bed and piled them onto his own. The note Ike left had promised that he and Karen had 'a plan,' but he hadn't lived in the real world since he was three years old, and even a genius wouldn't find many resources or places to hide.

When Kyle got home Jimbo, Ned, and his father were all in the foyer, his father dressed as if he was preparing to go out, buttoning up his coat.

"What's going on?" Kyle asked. He hadn't seen his father fully dressed in months, and now the sight was unsettling.

"Kyle, talk some sense into him," Jimbo said.

"Nobody's going to change my mind," Gerald said. "I know what I have to do."

"What?" Kyle pulled his hat off and hung it on the coat rack, trying not to panic. "What do you have to do, Dad?"

"I have to find your brother," Gerald said. "Jimbo and Ned have been searching around town, and I appreciate that, but it's time we cast the net wider."

"So let me and Ned go," Jimbo said. "We know how to track people, we could—"

"No," Gerald said. "I'm not having Kyle here unguarded. What are you doing walking home alone?" he asked, whirling on Kyle. "It's not safe. From now on, if you can't get a ride with your friends, Jimbo will take you to and from the Red Cross camp."

"You're not—" Kyle said. "Dad, you can't just – I mean, what are you going to do? Where are you going to look?"

"Everywhere," Gerald said. "Ned, Jimbo, I'd appreciate it if you'd help me pack the car with provisions. I might be gone for a week or more."

"Dad!" Kyle said. "This is crazy, just – we can ask to have the bodyguards who were here after mom died back, then Jimbo and Ned can look for Ike—"

"There's no time for that, Kyle! Ike has been gone for months, and I can't just sit around here waiting to see what will happen. Not anymore," he said, and he took Kyle by the shoulders. "Not for a moment longer. I know I've been – distant since Mom died, and I'm sorry, but I'm not going to lose Ike, too. Or you. Jimbo and Ned have to stay, and I don't want you going anywhere without one of them with you and one of them guarding the house. Understand?"

"No!" Kyle said, though he did. His father was currently his most expendable protector. "Dad, you're—" He couldn't bring himself to say, You're all I have left, because that would be like admitting Ike was really gone. Stan, too.

"Try to understand, Kyle," Gerald said. "I've done nothing since your mother died, and I haven't really been myself since the war. It's not fair to you, I know, but none of what's happened is. Now I need to do this, for us, for our family – I can't stare at the walls of this house for another minute, not while your brother is out there somewhere."

His father meant that literally; he left that night, with a rifle and the backseat of the car packed with provisions. Jimbo tried to gather Kyle into a hug after Gerald had gone, but Kyle evaded his grip and hurried up the stairs. He shut his bedroom door softly, not wanting Jimbo to follow him, and sunk down to the floor, marveling at the fact that Jimbo was related to Stan, that they shared some of the same blood. They looked nothing alike. Kyle would have been so comforted by even a dimple of similarity. Like Stan, Jimbo had a big heart, but it wasn't enough of a resemblance to make Kyle feel like he wasn't suddenly and completely alone. He folded his arms over his knees and rested his head down, trying to breathe normally.

When he was undressing for bed that night he felt the weight of the knife Stan had given him in his pocket as he slid his jeans down. He took it out and climbed under his blankets in only his underwear, wiggling down to try to get warm. He pressed the jade handle to his lips as if to warm it up, too, thinking of what he'd told Stan in his letters, that Cartman hadn't bothered him. Every time Kyle went to market Cartman called him over, leering, and asked how Captain America was doing. Kyle lied to Cartman, too, or began to after he stopped hearing from Stan. He always answered shortly that Stan was doing fine, fighting bravely, writing often.

He couldn't sleep, so he lit a candle, pulled the blankets around him and took Stan's last letter from his bedside drawer. It shredded him every time he read it, mostly for what was left unsaid. There was no way of knowing if Stan had received Kyle's spontaneous confession about his sexuality, which he'd sealed up and run to the mail box in town before he could change his mind or even read over what he'd written. His angst about Stan's lack of reply had seemed frivolous as soon as he received Stan's letter of November 1, almost two months after that date. _I want to see you again someday so I can try to describe what's happened_. Kyle could never read that sentence without a shiver of dread that lingered and became heavier after he'd put the letter away. He didn't need to be holding Stan's letter to hear those words in Stan's voice, flat and exhausted. He heard it all the time.

"I just want," he said, speaking to the letter, and he pressed it to his face. He wanted Stan, wanted to be held; even after everything that he knew Stan had been through, and the things that he knew he couldn't possibly imagine, he still wanted Stan to appear and comfort _him_. He hated himself for it, but he could never get to sleep without pretending he was in Stan's arms. He knew that if Stan did come home he would marry Wendy, that the sleepovers were done for good either way. Kyle would give up his hands to endure that in lieu of losing Stan entirely, but both potential outcomes haunted him. For as long as he could remember, some part of Stan had belonged to him. Stan's marriage would undo that, even if they both pretended otherwise. Kyle fell asleep praying that he'd have to opportunity to suffer that particular heartbreak.

The next few days were dark and snowy, and Jimbo made sure that Kyle was rarely alone. He was like Stan in this way, hanging back and fretting in silence, gently encouraging Kyle to eat. Kyle tried to appreciate this, but he mostly felt harassed by the company, and the only time he was glad to have Jimbo with him was when he visited the market and Cartman didn't have the balls to make any comments about Stan in front of his uncle.

"What can I get for you today, gentlemen?" Cartman asked when Kyle approached his booth. He sold "surplus" food rations, and Wendy had been working on proving that they were stolen, but Cartman had always been careful about covering his tracks. Every time Kyle saw him he thought about how what had happened in Butters' bedroom that night had gone unpunished. Cartman had done it knowing Kyle would be too ashamed to try to get him in trouble without proof. He still curled in on himself in horror when he thought about how no one had ever touched him like that before Cartman, and how likely it was that no one else ever would.

"Do you have cigarettes?" Kyle asked.

"Why, Kyle," Cartman said, eying Jimbo. "I didn't think you had it in you."

"They're not for me," Kyle said, and he clamped his mouth shut, hating how Cartman always seemed to be able to pry information from him without much effort.

"Cigarettes are expensive," Cartman said, and something in his eyes changed, a subtle meanness that Kyle would recognize from twenty feet away. "Who are you willing to spend that much money on, when you've got mouths to feed?" He glanced at Jimbo again. The Broflovski family paid for Jimbo and Ned's expenses personally since the government-supplied bodyguards had packed up around Thanksgiving, needed elsewhere.

"Do you have them or not?" Kyle asked. "I don't have all day to stand here and tell you things that aren't your business."

"Oh, Kyle," Cartman said. "Always so feisty. Let's see, hmm. I don't think I have any in stock right now, but I'm meeting with my supplier at close of business today. If you came by my house, say, eight o'clock this evening—"

"No, thanks," Kyle said, his heart pounding with rage at Cartman's nerve. "Put them aside for me and I'll come get them tomorrow."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Kyle. I can sell them to the girls at the house, after all. And they've got the money – business is booming." He leered at Kyle, leaning over his table until Kyle took a step back. "My mom's even got a boy working there now, if you're looking for some company."

"Fascinating," Kyle said, assuming that boy was Cartman. He could feel his cheeks heating. He knew Cartman could see it, and was relishing it. "Well, if you can't help me I'll ask somewhere else."

"Oh, I could help you," Cartman said, lowering his voice. "We both know that, and how. Don't forget it, Kyle!" he called as Kyle stormed away, Jimbo following him.

"You alright, kiddo?" Jimbo asked.

"I'm fine, I – I should have known better than to – I just don't know who else would have them. He's cornered the market on so many things. I don't know he does it." Kyle gritted his teeth, wishing he didn't have to care. It wasn't just Cartman's ability to conquer the black market that made his blood boil, it was everything he'd always taken so easily, laughing, careless.

"Well, let's see," Jimbo said. "Ned had to quit a few years back when smokes started getting too expensive, but back in the day he got them from – damn, who was it? Some guy who worked down at the theater. Shit, I wonder if he's dead?"

"Probably," Kyle said, because the movie theater was now an ash-filled crater. He heard how cold he sounded and stopped, turning to Jimbo. "I just wanted to do something nice for someone who's lost – everything, basically. He's a veteran, at the Red Cross camp. Cigarettes are, like. The only thing he still loves."

"We'll find him some," Jimbo said, and he gave Kyle's shoulder a squeeze. Something about the gesture was so Stan-like that Kyle had to turn away before he could get upset. He was always most vulnerable to that sort of thing after an encounter with Cartman.

They didn't find cigarettes, but Kyle sprung for a good-looking pork loin and brought it home for Ned to butcher. He'd been a cook in the army and was pretty good at it, even when the power was out. Like most families in South Park, the Broflovskis had invested in a wood-burning stove and had it installed alongside the gas stove for desperate times. Even when the gas was working they burned wood in the stove to heat the kitchen less expensively. Jimbo usually did the wood chopping, but Kyle insisted that evening, needing to feel useful. He was still rattled by what Cartman had said. _We have a boy now_. Kyle had no doubt that Cartman would sell himself until he'd stockpiled enough cash to buy up more stalls at the market. He already had almost the entire back wall since he'd merged with Craig, and they employed Tweek and Craig's sister Ruby to run the counter for them. Still, Cartman was always there, overseeing, and he would appear whenever Kyle stopped by to browse his wares, which were impressive in variety and often impossible to find elsewhere.

It was late afternoon, the sun already sinking, and though Kyle hadn't eaten all day and was quickly out of breath, he was glad to do some physical labor. He was glad, too, to hit something, to cut the wood in two with one blow when he struck it right. Angry tears froze at the corners of his eyes when he thought of Randy Marsh teaching him and Stan to do this when they were ten years old. It was the second year of the war, a good one for America, and Randy was home on a month-long leave. He'd said that Stan would have to be the man of the house if anything should happen to him, so he'd better know how to chop wood properly, and Stan had rolled his eyes as if it was just some joke Randy was telling, the idea that he could be gone. Most of the casualties had been Canadian in those early years. They didn't yet know anyone who had died, unless they counted Terrance and Phillip, who did feel like dear friends once. Stan and Kyle had remembered them together in secret; when they called each other by those names it made Kyle itchy with excitement, the way all of his secrets with Stan had.

He heard a car in the front driveway when it was almost too dark to continue with the ax, and was immediately startled. As he came around to the front, still holding the ax, he feared he'd see Cartman's truck with its giant snow tires, that he'd come with some cigarettes to sell for the purpose of harassing Kyle further. He wasn't expecting a military Jeep and three men in full uniform.

"No," he said, the word whimpering from him weakly as he stood watching Jimbo receive the officers at the front door, and he had to screw his eyes shut and remind himself that if something had happened to Stan the military would have no reason to send notice to the Broflovski house. Kyle was not Stan's fiancee. Ike, he thought, and he dropped the ax into the snow, running for the front door.

"Here he is," Jimbo said. "Kyle, these officers say they need to ask you about something." He looked worried, and Kyle saw his rifle leaning against the wall in the foyer.

"Me?" Kyle said. "What's happened? Is it – my father?"

"We were hoping to speak to him," said the officer who seemed oldest, gray hair at his temples. "But we've just been told that he's away. On what business?"

"He's just – he's gone to Denver to see some friends and shop for things we need," Kyle said. "We're running low here on – everything, actually, I work at the Red Cross center and we really need—"

"Might we come in, Mr. Broflovski?" the gray-haired man said.

Kyle had no choice; if the military asked to enter a private home, it wasn't really a request. He brought them in, and was glad that he had Ned to serve tea, his own hands shaking conspicuously. The gray-haired man introduced himself as Colonel Rogers and said he was stationed in Fort Collins.

"At the training camp?" Kyle asked, stuffing his hands under his knees to hide how hard they were shaking. They were seated in the living room, both of the officers Rogers had come with still stationed by the door, Jimbo leaning near the fireplace.

"That's right," Rogers said. "I oversee things at the camp there. One of my duties is to monitor communications that are marked as suspicious."

"Oh," Kyle said. He was afraid that he was about to be arrested, his mind racing as he tried to imagine what he might have done.

"That's how this particular letter came to my attention," Rogers said, pulling an envelope from his inside coat pocket. "It's addressed to Stan Marsh from Kyle Broflovski, dated October 13."

Kyle didn't have to wonder which letter that was. He remembered clearly, because he'd counted the days with no response from Stan. It was the letter that contained the first and only admission Kyle had ever made about his sexuality.

"It's not illegal," he blurted, his face heating. "I mean, not for a civilian—"

"In the letter," Rogers said, opening it, "If I may read from it. You say, at one point, to Lieutenant Marsh, 'I got some condoms for Ike and he laughed, then turned pink in a way that makes me fear it's too late. They're only children, it's insane, but the war has made us all grow up fast.'" Rogers looked up from the paper and gave Kyle an unflinching stare, letting that sink in for a moment. "This struck me as odd, because Issac Broflovski died many years ago. Or so we were led to believe."

"Excuse me?" Kyle said, hoping fake outrage would buy him some time. It seemed impossible that he'd slipped now, after all the years when no one who knew the secret had, but he'd been in such a hurry to get the letter out, to keep up his courage— "My brother – are you actually suggesting—"

"Mr. Broflovski," Rogers said. His voice had hardened, but only slightly. "It's a very serious crime to assist a Canadian citizen in avoiding internment."

"But I haven't!" Kyle said, trying to make himself believe his own anger, his hands slipping out and curling into fists. "My brother is dead, and this is very – I wish that he was alive, I wish, but—"

"Then how do you explain this letter?"

"Has Stan seen it?" Kyle asked. He felt himself crumbling from the inside out, wanted Jimbo to chase the officers away with his gun.

"I'm sorry?" Rogers said.

"Stan – Lieutenant Marsh, has he seen that letter?" Kyle's face was burning, but at least he had this as an excuse. "I'm sure you can. Since you've read the whole thing. You can imagine why I'd want to know."

"He has not seen it," Rogers said. "It's been classified as sensitive. But there is a graver matter here than your communications with your – friend." Rogers stopped there for a moment, studying Kyle. "I need you tell me the truth about your brother before we search this house and find him. It will make things easier for both of you."

"You won't find him!" Kyle said. His terror lent some authenticity to the appearance of outrage, he supposed, since his eyes were watering. "Have you even got—"

"A warrant? Yes." Rogers produced another paper from his coat pocket. "Men," he said, turning to the officers at the door. They nodded, one heading up the stairs while another went into the dining room. "You can examine this if you like," Rogers said, holding the warrant out for Kyle. "Please, son," he said when Kyle took it, his hands still shaking. "Just tell us where your brother is."

"In the graveyard," Kyle said, scowling. "Buried. How dare you. That message to Stan – it's a sort of code we use. Nothing, ah, sinister, just a friendship thing, something we've done since we were boys. If I didn't want to implicate one of our friends in something – embarrassing, I'd use my brother's name. It was – was, ah. To honor him."

"That doesn't make much sense, Mr. Broflovski."

"Well, we were kids when I invented it, and, and—" Kyle pretended to study the warrant, unable to go any further with such a stupid lie. Even in the midst of his panic, he was immensely relieved, because they wouldn't find Ike, and because Stan had never seen that letter.

After the officers had searched for almost an hour, not quite tearing the house apart but not being especially careful, either, they could only question Kyle about the bed in the attic. By then he had his story ready.

"Our maid slept there, Karen McCormick," Kyle said. "She was employed by us for six months, but she's left town now. The bed is stripped, as you can see."

Rogers stared at Kyle for a few long moments after he'd said so. Kyle knew he'd won, in a sense, despite not being able to come up with a better lie under pressure. There was nothing to find, but he knew he'd be watched now, at least for some weeks.

"Thank you for your patience," Rogers said as the men prepared to leave. "I'm sure you can understand how a letter like this would arouse our suspicions."

"I'm sorry you were confused," Kyle said sharply, wanting him gone.

"I met your mother once," Rogers said. "You're like her."

"Thank you," Kyle said, though he didn't get the impression it had been meant as a compliment. "I wonder," he called out when Rogers turned to go, fitting his hat back over his closely cropped hair. "Um, I wonder if I could ask you about Lieutenant Marsh? If you've had news of him?"

"Marsh left camp with the 92nd back in October," Rogers said. "He hasn't written to me, either, I'm afraid." He gave Kyle a tight, mocking smile before turning to go.

"He did write to me," Kyle said, holding back tears as he stood at front windows, watching them go. Jimbo was behind him, still biting his tongue about what had just happened. He remained very patriotic, to the point that Kyle had often wondered if he'd turn Ike in himself. "He did write," Kyle said. "He wrote me as often as he could."

"Well, of course he did," Jimbo said, and he patted Kyle's back. "That pork smells like it's about ready, huh? Come get something to eat."

"I feel like I'll throw up," Kyle said. "I'm such an idiot. To slip like that, I – I can't believe I did that, I could have cost Ike everything, and for what? For what," he said, again, to himself.

"Shh, alright. We got lucky, but it's not your fault. Ike might have some – tainted ancestry, but he's American, dammit. How else would he have the balls to run off with the first girl he kissed, huh?"

"He's an idiot, too," Kyle said. "God, and now my father. He's delusional, I think, and I'm not using that word lightly. They're all just – gone." He looked up into Jimbo's eyes, embarrassed to be having this conversation with him. Jimbo always looked like a loyal dog who'd just been kicked when he had to face something emotional.

"They'll be back, though," Jimbo said. "Stan, too. Don't you worry."

Kyle managed to eat only a few bites, and as soon as he was up in his room he was sorry that he'd left the company of Jimbo and Ned. They weren't very good conversationalists and Kyle often ignored whatever they were talking about in favor of losing himself to his own grim thoughts, but it was nice to be around other people. He thought of going to Wendy's house, because Stan would like that, but he wouldn't be able to explain why he was so shaken. She didn't know about Ike, and he would never tell her the contents of the rest of that letter, his confession and what it meant. Stan was humble enough that he might have read what Kyle wrote without connecting the dots, but Wendy would. If she ever heard it from Kyle himself that he was gay, she would know that he longed for Stan and always had. She was too smart to miss it.

In the coming week Kyle received two very unexpected items in his mail box. The first made his skin prickle with goosebumps: an unopened pack of cigarettes, no note. Kyle hurried into the house after finding it there, feeling as if Cartman was hiding somewhere nearby, watching for his reaction to this seeming gift. He hid them inside his sleeve and threw them away in the kitchen garbage as soon as Ned's back was turned. He felt terrible doing it, because their monetary value had to be at least forty dollars, and if they hadn't been tampered with Christophe would have been so glad for them. Kyle couldn't take the risk – Cartman knew, thanks to Kyle's stupid admission, that he wasn't looking to buy cigarettes for himself, and anyone who Kyle was willing to spend that much money on would be considered a rival. Cartman had probably poisoned the things somehow; he didn't give gifts, or anything, without ulterior motives. Kyle was unsettled for the rest of the day, and he felt watched wherever he went.

This preoccupied him for the next two days, but it was all wiped away by the next unexpected thing he received. Kyle was pretty sure he'd never seen Ned smile, but he was making a valiant attempt at one when Kyle came into the kitchen with Jimbo after his Red Cross shift.

"Kyle," Ned said, holding an envelope out. "Something for you."

It was a letter from Stan. Kyle tore it open with a half-swallowed shout, turning his back on Ned and Jimbo, who watched him fondly, like he was a child unwrapping a birthday present. It was hard for Kyle to make himself focus on the actual words, so swept up just by the sight of Stan's handwriting, and he tried not to be very disheartened by the date on the letter.

_January 3_

_Dear Kyle,_

_I can't tell you where we are, but I want you to know that I'm safe and we've found this place to stay, a kind of inn where they have beer! And we're allowed to drink it. I feel like myself again for the first time since I left training camp. It makes such a big difference, having an actual bed (well, cot) to sleep in. Butters got drunk and sang pop songs while this guy in our platoon (Davis) played the piano, and everyone was cheering and singing along, and he (Butters) danced with Bebe, who is a superstar by the way, I can't tell you why exactly but I will when I get home. It was like real life again, last night. We pretended it was New Year's Eve._

_I miss you so much that I'm afraid to see you again. Do you know what I mean? I feel like you'd be in some sort of danger if I laid eyes on you now, like I'm covered in this film that would get on you._

_I meant for this letter to be happy, so ignore that. But I'm leaving it in, because I want you to know everything, I want to tell you everything sometime. Things I wouldn't even tell W because I wouldn't want to scare her, not that she's easily scared, but there are some things that I want to protect her from anyway._

_So thank you for being the only person I could ever say it all to. I think about that whenever something indescribable happens, like: I'll try to tell Kyle someday._

_I love you, just writing this made me cry, I don't wish you were here anymore (I'm so glad you're not, so so glad, and don't take that the wrong way), I'm still kind of drunk._

_Don't want to stop writing cause it's like I'm hanging up a phone and you'll be gone again but as you can see I'm running out of paper. I haven't gotten any letters from you in a long time, but I have more hope about this getting to you than yours ending up in the right spot here. I'm sure you still write to me all the time, so don't feel bad that I haven't gotten them. We move around a lot – we're going to have to leave this place soon._

_The pictures of us are a little crumpled, but mostly from me handling them too much. Not singed. No part of me is singed, because I promised you it wouldn't be._

_Love,_

_Stan_

Kyle read the letter three times before turning back to the kitchen, hugging it to his chest.

"He's okay," he said, though he had no way of knowing. The Stan in the letter was the Stan of over a month ago. So much could have happened, and Kyle was teetering between joy and horror, because Stan was still so fragile and hopeful and perfectly intact. There was still so much to lose, and he'd been somewhat immune to knowing that before reading the new letter. Kyle clung to Jimbo when he came forward for a hug, sobbing just once against his shoulder. Kyle was trembling and tired, like he'd just spent three days climbing out of a hole in the earth.

Wendy was at his door five minutes later, clutching her own letter from Stan. They grabbed for each other, both talking at once, babbling about what they'd learned. It seemed to be mostly the same information, but neither of them offered to show the other their letter. Wendy stayed for dinner, and she was there when Stan's mother called on the phone. She'd gotten a letter, too.

"I have this feeling that he'll be home soon," Sharon said. "In my gut, and I hate that I have to go to New York."

"New York?" Kyle said, looking at Wendy. She was lingering close, listening in.

"Yes, there's – I'll be needed," she said. "There's – the fighting up there. I'm sure you've seen the news."

"I have," Kyle said. It was being billed in glaring headlines as the decisive battle. "Be careful."

Jimbo drove Wendy home, and Kyle rode along with them. He walked her to her door and let her hug him hard. They were both thinking of Stan, trying to pull the other close enough to make whatever pieces of Stan they held in them feel it, too.

"I know I'll see him again," Wendy said, and Kyle nodded, because he felt the same way.

The following day was Valentine's Day, and Wendy and Gregory persuaded Kyle to help them decorate the ward a bit. There was also candy to hand out, again courtesy of Gregory. Clyde had checked out of the center and reemerged as a volunteer, along with Craig.

"We can't have you working here if we know you're selling pills," Wendy said as Craig stood overseeing the hanging of pink and white streamers in the dining area.

"You always were subtle," Craig said.

"I can't respect dishonesty on any level," Wendy said. "Subtlety included." She turned to Craig. "There are shortages, you know, and—"

"Keep my pills," Craig said. He looked across the room, at the poker game Clyde was participating in. Clyde seemed to be in good spirits, laughing and popping candy hearts in his mouth. Kyle wondered if he'd gotten a letter from Bebe. "Just don't tell Clyde," Craig said, moving closer. "Don't tell him I did that."

"It's not my business to tell him anything about you," Wendy said, muttering, and she turned back to the streamers.

For Valentine's Day Kyle received no flowers, no cards, no new letter from Stan or any anonymous cigarettes in his mailbox. At home, Ned had made a special dinner, with candles lit on the table, and it took Kyle only a few minutes to realize that it wasn't for him.

"I'm fine," he insisted as he made a plate to take up to his room: a modest slice of an optimistically creative casserole with white sauce, lasagna noodles, bell peppers and corn. Kyle wished he'd thought to buy something nicer for Ned and Jimbo to eat on Valentine's Day, but he'd somehow never realized what they were to each other before then. He had noticed that they both slept in the guest bedroom, but he'd thought they were only trying to be polite by leaving his parents' bedroom untouched.

"You sure?" Jimbo called as Kyle darted from the kitchen with his plate. "I mean – aw, geez, alright."

Kyle celebrated Valentine's Day by sucking on the handle of the knife Stan had given him and jerking off for the first time in months. He came and was immediately disappointed, as usual, by the perfunctory anticlimax of beating off a batch alone in his bed. He continued to suck on the knife handle until he fell asleep.

The weeks that followed were cold but less bleak. Every time Kyle crossed Wendy's path at the center they would give each other a secret smile, and it was like a holographic image of Stan that was generated between them, a hope that felt like a promise because they were together in wanting it. Clyde was popular in the ward and Craig seemed warmer every day, less dependent on the cane, more determined to walk alongside his friend without it. Christophe's prosthetic arrived on the first of March, and Kyle sent Gregory to the market for the ingredients for a little cake for him.

"I'd send my bodyguard, but you'll have to buy at least the sugar from Cartman, and—" Kyle left off there, not sure how much he wanted or would be able to explain to Gregory about Cartman's pathetic obsession with him and how it might manifest in poisoned sugar.

"No, I'm glad to go," Gregory said. He was distracted, watching Wendy help Christophe with the functions on the prosthetic. "He's – it's so good for all of us. Just. I think it's something we've all been waiting for, in a way." His eyes were a bit red-rimmed when he smiled at Kyle, and he left in a hurry.

Predictably, Christophe scoffed at the cake, but Kyle knew him well enough not to be hurt, and Gregory didn't seem deterred as he cut a slice.

"Try it out," Wendy said, meaning the hand, and she placed a fork on the plate Gregory had offered.

"Wendy, please," Gregory said. "Don't pressure him."

"Don't coddle me," Christophe said. "You think I'm afraid to look like a fool in front of you idiots? I'm not." He clumsily scraped up a piece of cake, and got it into his mouth with only minimal frosting smearing, which Kyle cleaned away. "Thank you for not applauding," Christophe said, scanning the crowd that was gathered around his bed, and everyone laughed nervously.

Days began to blend together again, and Kyle felt a jolt of brand new pain in his chest when he checked the mailbox on the way into the house in the evenings. He knew there would be nothing there – Ned would have picked up any mail that came by then – and he knew better than to expect another letter from Stan so soon. But he was wanting for something, a beastly hunger he'd always had newly fed, never satisfied. The rational parts of him were horrified that he expected anything from Stan, and especially now, but sometimes he went to bed feeling angry, because Stan had not reappeared.

And then he did. It was Jimbo who shook Kyle awake after midnight, and Kyle scrambled for his knife, wanting to be battle ready. He kept it under his pillow, and he was half ready to stab an imaginary Cartman by the time he realized what was going on.

"You have to come, she says!" Jimbo said, fat tears coursing down his cheeks. Kyle had never seen him cry, and part of him knew what had happened before he heard it said. "Stan's – back, he's in the Red Cross camp, he's home!"

Kyle felt like he was in a dream, sleep-walking, half awake in the passenger seat of Jimbo's truck as it trundled through dark streets, a light snow dancing off the windshield, insultingly whimsical. Wendy had called, apparently, after being called by Gregory, who seemed to never leave the ward. Something had changed in Kyle where he once was hopeful, and he found himself angry at the prospect of relief, prepared himself to wage war against the disappointment that was forthcoming. Surely Wendy had been misunderstood, or had hallucinated. Surely it wasn't as simple as Stan being home.

It wasn't simple, but it was true: forty new soldiers had been brought in from five different platoons, and the ward was crowded, chaotic, noisy with suffering. Kyle found Wendy and she grabbed his hand, her eyes dark. She said nothing, just pulled him toward the back of the ward, and he was glad she'd made no attempt to explain. Stan was there, in one of their beds, but it took Kyle a moment to place him. He was pale and quiet, his eyes closed.

Wendy jerked Kyle back hard when he tried to bolt for Stan, and for a moment Kyle was so irrational, unhinged, and childishly wanting that he thought he would strike her. Her eyes were soft, and she dug her nails into his wrist as if trying to prove by pinching him that was actually awake.

"Kyle," she said, but she didn't seem able to continue, her voice just cracked sandpaper, eyes dancing away from something unsaid. Kyle ripped free of her grip and went to Stan's bed.

It was like only seeing a picture of him, and someone else had drawn it. Kyle's picture of Stan was not this one, and he fell to his knees beside Stan's cot, his hands hovering over Stan's arm, his chest. Stan didn't seem asleep, but he wasn't opening his eyes.

"Dude?" Kyle said.

Stan's lips were dry, and his skin looked – off, like it had been scrubbed in sea water. He even smelled wrong, antiseptic but dirty, too. Wendy was hanging back, and even with her back turned on them Kyle could tell that she had both hands pressed over her mouth. Stan opened his eyes and looked at Kyle when Kyle grabbed his hand. Kyle was reduced to a heart beat, just an overwhelmed, erratic noise between his own ears, and he was afraid Stan wouldn't be able to see him. Stan looked at him as if he couldn't, but Kyle saw recognition in his eyes, too, as if Stan had seen his own ghost and failed to be frightened by it. Stan's eyes were like a Christmas tree with one strand of lights burned out. Maybe two.

"Weird," Stan said, and he squeezed Kyle's hand.

"What?" Kyle said. He wasn't crying, but his voice was some alien thing, thrown and broken like it was on a roller coaster or passing through a windmill.

"Just," Stan said, and he closed his eyes again.

"I can't believe you're here," Kyle said. "Shit, fuck, goddamn." He squeezed Stan's hand harder with each curse, wanting him to know that he was willing to endure the legendary fifty-string curse word death wish. It was an urban legend, based somewhat in fact, that fifty in a row would kill anyone with a v-chip. Kyle wanted to die, sort of, because that seemed like what Stan was doing, sort of. But he wasn't bleeding, and all his limbs were in place.

"You're okay?" Stan said, looking at Kyle, his eyes barely slit open. Kyle nodded hard.

"I'm okay," he said, and he kissed Stan's knuckles, then again, again, unable to stop. "I'm okay, I'm okay."

"Good," Stan said. He turned to look at the ceiling. "That's good, I'm glad."

"Are you really here?" Kyle asked, his teeth nicking Stan's knuckles.

"Um," Stan said, and he closed his eyes. Kyle felt a hand on his shoulder and startled, realizing as he looked up at Wendy that he'd thought it was Death touching him, wanting Stan. He'd been so ready for a fight.

"Sweetheart," Wendy said, speaking to Stan. She'd been transformed, too, into a liar – Kyle had never heard that tone on her, beseeching and fake, desperate. "Me and Kyle – we're going to get you something to eat. Do you want something to eat?"

Stan didn't answer. Kyle noticed that his hands were curled into fists as Wendy dragged him away.

"What," Kyle said, still speaking to Stan. "What—"

"Shh!" Wendy said, so harshly that Kyle expected to be slapped. She dragged toward the linen supply, around the corner.

"But he's there," Kyle said, crying, wanting to go back to him.

"He's hurt," Wendy said. "The doctors. The ones who brought this ship- shipment – that's not the right word!" she said, almost shouting, pinching her eyes shut and pulling at her hair. When she looked at Kyle again he knew he was about to get a knife through the heart. "The doctor who treated him in Michigan," she said.

"Michigan?" Kyle said.

"He –" Wendy shook her head hard. "He said he was sure."

"Sure about what? Wendy, fuh – tell me! I feel like I'm dreaming, why did he look like that, why are you—"

"He's paralyzed," Wendy said, meeting Kyle's eyes like the slap he'd been waiting for. She'd made herself mean in order to be able to say so, and maybe she'd been mean before, but Kyle didn't recognize her. "From the waist down. He won't walk again. He won't. He's. From the waist down. The waist."

Kyle stared at her shoulder. She was wearing an ivory blouse with a high neckline, a surprisingly delicate material. It took him several seconds to realize it was a nightgown, that Wendy had rushed here without even putting on a coat.

"What," Kyle said, and then he lost his voice again.

"Butters came back, too," Wendy said. "He's at Hell's Pass, though."

Only the serious cases went there. Kyle turned around, wanting to look at Stan again, or to look and see the Stan he knew, who was not in that bed. Wendy caught his arm and pulled him back before he could.

"Butters isn't going to make it," she said. "He's going to die, Kyle. You'd better be fucking – grateful. We should be glad. Stan will live, so don't. Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not," Kyle said. He had no idea what his face looked like at the moment. "Bebe?"

"Oh – no," Wendy said. "I didn't see her in the register. She's, I don't know, still out there. Go sit with him, okay? Okay? I'm going, I. I'm going to call his m-mother, I should do that, I should—"

"I could," Kyle said. "I could call her, if you—"

"No," Wendy said. "Let me. I need—" And she was gone, her ponytail bobbing as if she was about to break into a run.

Kyle took careful steps, afraid the ground would crumble beneath him. Stan was lying motionless, his eyes still closed, fists uncurled now. Kyle stood five feet from Stan's bed for a while, watching, waiting for someone to come and tell him what to do. But surely Wendy was wrong, just being a pessimist. If she'd said so before Kyle laid his eyes on Stan, he could have believed she was only being paranoid, fearing the worst, afraid to hope. Looking at Stan, he knew she was right. Something had gone out of him, and it was bigger than a sadness, bigger than a foot or a hand.

"Your hair is longer," Kyle said when he sat on Stan's bed again. Stan blinked his eyes open and turned his head slowly. He seemed to be in another dimension where the gravity was heavier. Kyle felt like he was in one where the air was too light. He felt he'd be smashed against the wall like a gnat with the slightest wind or the next harsh word.

"My hair?" Stan said. "Oh. Yeah, I guess." He stared at Kyle, the corner of his eye quirking, then his lips. Someone had done a bad job of shaving his cheeks. There were a few sore-looking spots. "She told you," Stan said. "You're all white. She told you."

"I can't—" Kyle said, and he looked away, then hated himself for it. He looked back to Stan, made his gaze as steady as he could. "She said. She said—"

"She told you," Stan said. He was holding Kyle's hand like he wanted to snap a few of his fingers off, but Kyle understood it as a kind of limitless love, and he wanted to lose a few fingers to it.

"Jimbo is outside," Kyle said.

"He took care of you," Stan said. He nodded once. "I told him to."

"Stan," Kyle said, and he fell down onto him, his forehead resting high on Stan's chest. He didn't cry, just shook like an earthquake. "Please," he said. He wasn't sure what he was asking, and hated himself for wanting anything.

"I know," Stan said. "Just don't. Don't drag Jimbo in here, don't. Don't go."

"I won't," Kyle said, and he grabbed Stan's uniform shirt, pulled it against his face. "I won't."

He did, though, when Stan was given fresh drugs, when he'd fallen asleep. Kyle didn't go far, just to the nearest corner to throw up. Wendy was there when he turned around, stone-faced, offering a rag. Kyle used it to wipe his mouth.

"You're not sure," Kyle said when he could speak again.

"They're sure," Wendy said. "I'm sure."

Kyle felt that she had something he never could, and it wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, but it was still new. Wendy was marching ahead into what Kyle was still unwilling to see, his hand over his face as if this were just some scary movie. He dropped to Stan's bed again, against his side, and he could feel Christophe watching him from across the ward. Only when he recognized that Christophe was doing so with pity did he accept what Wendy knew, what the doctors knew, what Stan knew: everyone knew what had been said was real, final, actually happening. And then Kyle knew, too.


	5. Chapter 5

Someone had donated the lumber for the ramps; Kyle wasn't sure who, and didn't care enough to find them and thank them. Everyone should lay whatever they had at Stan's functionless feet, as far as he was concerned. Clyde came over to help Kyle and Jimbo construct the ramps, one at the front door of the Marsh household and one that led into the backyard. The problem of the staircase to the second floor was more complicated, and for now they would simply set up Stan's bedroom in the den. It was decided that Jimbo, Ned, and Kyle would move in with Stan until Sharon returned from New York. Jimbo and Ned would be there for protection, Kyle for companionship and general nursing duties. Stan was refusing all of Wendy's offers of support. He had ended their engagement.

"I feel useless," Kyle said when Clyde took the hammer from him, burying a nail into the wood with two strokes. Kyle meant that he felt useless generally, because there was nothing he could do to help Stan beyond ramp building, and also specifically, in this moment. His hands were shaking too badly to properly operate a hammer. Stan would be released from the hospital later that afternoon, into Kyle's temporary care.

"It's alright," Clyde said. "We're almost done." He looked up from the ramp and wiped his brow. Kyle knew he should offer some refreshments, but he was too drained to even think of what might still be in the fridge at the Marsh household. "You heard from Stan's mom yet?"

"No," Kyle said. "All lines of communication are down, except the military channels, I guess. It's a mess up there." The residents of South Park barely knew how the battle in New York was going, except via rumors. Power outages were the norm instead of the exception in recent weeks.

"What about his sister?" Clyde asked, and Kyle began to feel accused of not being capable of taking care of Stan. He knew that he wasn't, but Shelly would be no better. She would almost certainly be worse, impatient and cold. She'd barely spoken to Stan since leaving home.

"I'm not sure where Shelly is," Kyle said. "I assume Wendy wrote to her." Wendy was handling that sort of thing, despite Stan's attempts to shut her out.

"Poor Wendy," Clyde said, and he returned to his hammering.

"Yeah," Kyle said. "But - Stan will come around. She thinks so, even. He's just in shock."

Stan's position was that he was saving Wendy from a life as his nurse, when she had wanted to be his wife. Certainly he had not envisioned a homecoming like this one when he made his spontaneous proposal. No one had said so out loud, but everybody knew that he was thinking more of what he couldn't do in the bedroom than the fact that he would never walk again. Wendy had rejected Stan's resignation but was giving him space until he came to terms with this new reality, and she was furiously researching degrees of paralysis and the potential to regain feeling in certain areas. Just yesterday she'd had a long conversation with Kyle about Stan's ability to mostly control his bladder and what this might mean for erectile function in the future. She was very protective of Stan's feelings, though sad that he would not even look at her in his attempt at a "clean break." Meanwhile, Kyle was hearing her every thought on the sensitive matters that no one else was willing to discuss, and which he could safely assume she was not discussing with anyone but him. He tried to be supportive, but it was hard for him to think about in a way that he couldn't explain to her, or anyone.

They were nearly done with the backyard ramp when Craig appeared, walking at a faster clip than perhaps was wise with his injury. He had his cane, but he was using it more to vault himself forward than support uneasy steps. At first Kyle assumed that he was just eager to see Clyde, but he looked stricken when he came closer.

"You guys should come to the hospital," Craig said when he'd reached them. "If you want to see Butters one last time."

"Are you sure?" Clyde asked.

"The doctors are," Craig said. "Can we use your uncle's truck?" he asked, looking to Kyle.

"Jimbo's not my uncle," Kyle said. Craig grunted, as if Kyle was missing the point. "He's - Stan's uncle, but yeah. Let's go."

Kyle drove and Craig rode up front, Clyde in the back. Only Clyde spoke, muttering about his disbelief that Butters wasn't going to make it, though they'd been told that from the start, when he arrived home weeks ago. Kyle kept trying to drive the matter home in his head: Butters was dying. This was the last time he would see Butters, if they even made it in time. He couldn't make it feel real.

It was a gray day with no fresh snow, not especially cold but certainly not warm. Kyle was shaken by the time he parked, afraid to enter Hell's Pass and endure the sight of Butters on the verge of death. Stan had been at Hell's Pass for the last two nights, having been moved there from the Red Cross camp in preparation for his return to civilian life. He was working with nurses who specialized in training paraplegics to attempt a kind of normalcy. When they reached Butters' room Stan was there in his wheelchair, and Kyle was surprised to see Wendy there, too, standing on the opposite side of the room. Mrs. Stotch was at Butters' side on the bed, weeping silently while Butters breathed in and out in harsh, rattling pulls and wheezy exhales. He'd suffered undetected internal bleeding in the same landmine blast that had crippled Stan, and by the time he was examined by a field doctor his heart and lungs had been damaged badly. He'd survived a surgery in Michigan and one here in South Park, but the prognosis had always been grim. Kyle wanted to stop looking at him, because this didn't seem to be _him_ at all. He fought the urge to search the room for the real Butters, who would surely weep for the pathetic creature in the hospital bed.

"Is he coming?" Butters rasped out, scanning the room without moving his head.

"Gregory found him at the market," Wendy said. "He told me - he said he'd be here as soon as he could."

"Who?" Kyle asked, quietly, speaking to Stan.

"Cartman," Stan said. "He'd better hurry." Stan's voice was tight, angry, and Kyle knew he was wondering if Cartman would come at all.

"Oh, Eric," Butters said, as if Cartman had arrived. His eyes slid shut and he began to visibly shiver. "Eric, Eric."

"He's coming, baby," Mrs. Stotch said. She looked ancient, and Kyle supposed this had been true even before Butters returned in this condition. Mr. Stotch had been killed in action around Christmastime. Kyle rested his hand on the back of Stan's wheelchair and dared a look at Wendy. She was looking in Stan's direction but not at him, her eyes unfocused. It seemed to Kyle that someone else was missing, and he realized he was thinking of Kenny, whose death had never reached Kyle fully. It seemed like he was still out there somewhere, fighting the war.

There was nothing to say, and nothing to do but stand and stare at Butters in his death bed. He looked frail and younger than eighteen, his eyes sunken and his skin the kind of pale that could only be called deathly. Kyle wished Mrs. Stotch would say something, a prayer or just some wibbling nonsense about Butters going to see his father in heaven, but she was only crying and stroking Butters' hair. Memories of the days before the war bombarded Kyle's defenses until he was chewing his shaking lips, thinking of Butters dragging that little blanket around in pre-school and cluelessly sporting a Hello Kitty bandage on his cheek in first grade. Butters had covered his eyes during the scary parts in movies even during high school. How had he ever faced war? Kyle looked down at Stan, wondering if he and Butters saw Kenny die.

Though he knew it was hardly the most urgent matter at hand, Kyle couldn't help wanting to speak to Stan, to ask him how the training had been going. They hadn't seen each other much since Stan had been moved to Hell's Pass. The nurses were teaching him how to transfer himself from the wheelchair to a bed or toilet, practical things. He'd refused counseling. Kyle and Jimbo had installed a metal bar near the downstairs toilet and along the wall of the bathtub, though one nurse had cautioned Kyle not to allow Stan to try to bathe himself until his arm muscles were stronger. Kyle had no idea how either of them were going to do this. He wanted to touch Stan's shoulder, but he was afraid Stan would shrug him off, and aware that it would hurt Wendy if he didn't. Being allowed to touch Stan would feel too much like bragging, as if Kyle's situation was enviable. Wendy represented the life that Stan now had to give up. Kyle represented what Stan was stuck with, a kind of half-alive hell.

Meanwhile, Stan's every sigh felt sacred to Kyle, more so than ever before, and he wanted to lean down and cup Stan's breath between his hands to keep it safe. He still didn't seem quite like the Stan that Kyle had known, but he was here, breathing normally, alive enough for Kyle to cherish. His hair had been recently washed; Kyle could smell a kind of hospital-grade shampoo aroma emanating from him. He knew it was disgusting to still want Stan so much, or at least to still be so focused on it, but he couldn't be in a room with Stan and not adore him in quiet agony, and couldn't be away from him without feeling crazed with the need to have him near again.

"I think that's him," Craig said when they heard someone running through the hallway outside, approaching the room. Kyle was doubtful; Cartman didn't show that kind of selfless urgency for anything, and he'd never pretended to care much about Butters.

"Eric?" Butters said, his eyes opening slightly, and Kyle's heart broke. He thought of Stan's letters, the news that Butters had confessed his love for Cartman. The sendoff party at Butters' house seemed as if it had taken place two lifetimes ago, and Kyle thought of how Butters had been drunk, smiling, whispering about his secret. Kyle imagined himself in a bed like this, asking for Stan, still unable to say why or how much he wanted him.

To Kyle's surprise, those heavy footsteps reached the door of Butters' room, and it was thrown open. Cartman was breathless and disheveled, and he made a visible attempt to compose himself when he saw that he had a larger audience than Butters and his mother.

"Eric?" Butters said again, weakly. He tried to turn toward the door, only managing to twitch.

"It's him," Clyde said when Cartman said nothing. He lingered in the doorway, panting, the color draining from his face as he stared at Butters. As far as Kyle knew, Cartman hadn't been to visit Butters yet, and hadn't seen him at all since he returned from the war.

"Here's your friend, baby," Mrs. Stotch said, motioning Cartman toward the bed. "Here he is, right here."

"Butters?" Cartman said. His voice was weak, maybe from the strain of running. He walked toward the bed like Butters was a bomb that might go off.

"Eric!" Butters said, and he managed a smile, his eyes widening when Cartman loomed over him. "Oh, you. You came."

"What is this bullcrap about you dying?" Cartman asked. He was sniffling, and he actually reached for Butters' hand. Kyle tried to exchange a skeptical look with Wendy, but she was staring at Cartman and Butters, her eyes wet. "You can't die," Cartman said. "I need - you, my business is booming, okay, I need you in my employ."

"Don't eff around, Cartman," Stan said, and his voice was so mean that Kyle startled. This time Wendy did meet Kyle's eyes when he looked at her. "This isn't the time to talk shit," Stan said, only twitching a little when his chip fired.

"I wish I could work for you," Butters said to Cartman, his fingers twitching when Cartman squeezed his hand. "I would - love to, Eric. I would just love it."

"Okay, so." Cartman was actually crying; Kyle was stunned. "So you can't die, then. Do as I say, Butters, you hear me? Don't die."

Mrs. Stotch lost it at that, sobbing loudly into her hands. Butters didn't seem to notice. He just went on gazing up at Cartman, blinking slowly. Something was trembling in Kyle's chest, alongside his disbelief at Cartman's behavior. He'd spent so much time worrying about Stan, about Ike, about his father - he'd somehow never really considered that he could lose his other friends like this, that they could ever really be gone. It still seemed impossible that Butters was going anywhere, that he wasn't just sick.

"I always wanted to do - whatever you wanted," Butters said. He coughed a little, and Kyle noticed how dry his purplish lips were. Shouldn't someone get him some water? A chapstick? "Always," Butters said, the word barely scratching from his throat. "You remember."

"That's right," Cartman said. He was sniffling and wiping his face with his free hand, his other hand still squeezed around Butters' limp fingers. "So, just. Just get it the eff together."

"Don't make him feel bad," Wendy said, softly.

"I got something to say," Butters said. He swallowed; it sounded painful. "Something - to you, Eric. Something I gotta say."

"What?" Cartman asked. Kyle heard Craig groan under his breath.

"I love you," Butters said, and he seemed to sink down more deeply into himself, as if he was embarrassed to say so even now. "I hah-have for a long time."

"Well, that's just effing great, Butters," Cartman said, blubbering now. Kyle saw Stan go tense in his chair, his shoulders jerking as if he would have rushed to Butters' defense already if he had the use of his legs. "Because I love you, too," Cartman said. Kyle heard someone gasp; probably Wendy, it sounded girlish. "I love you, okay?" Cartman said, shaking Butters' hand. "So cancel this. Cancel this crap and we'll do something about it."

"Oh, Eric," Butters said. He was actually beaming, but it looked ghastly with his hollow cheeks. "Eric, you do? You love me?"

"I just said so, didn't I? Goddammit, Butters. Goddammit." If his chip fired after the swears, it wasn't visible, possibly because he was already bent over in seeming agony.

"That makes me happy," Butters said. He closed his eyes. Kyle closed his, too; he couldn't watch this. "Eric, oh. My silly old Eric. All this time. Oh, gosh, I should have told you sooner."

For a moment it actually seemed as if Butters' voice was getting stronger, as if he might be making some miraculous turn for the better, but he was gone within the hour, his breath growing more and more ragged until finally it stopped. When the machine by his bed began droning an angry flatline, Mrs. Stotch screamed for a doctor, though the decision not to prolong his suffering by reviving him had already been made. Wendy was crying softly and Craig was clinging to Clyde, breathing hard. Kyle had grabbed Stan's shoulder at some point, without realizing it. Stan was still tensed, his eyes wet while his profile remained stoic. When the doctor that Mrs. Stotch had shouted for reached the room, she could only pronounce Butters' time of death.

Cartman said nothing. He released Butters' hand and backed away from the bed, white-faced, his lips trembling. Wendy was frozen in the corner, both fists pressed over her mouth. Mrs. Stotch had thrown herself onto Butters to weep, and Clyde moved away from Craig to lay a hand on her back. Kyle was numb, feeling as if he was watching a film about people he once knew. The colors didn't seem right, everything washed in dim florescent glow. Kyle held back his tears until he remembered Butters bringing homemade sugar cookies to Sheila's funeral, as if that was a thing people did, but he'd only meant to help. Cartman ran from the room, and Kyle heard him begin to sob in desperate gasps, as if someone had their hands around his throat.

"Someone should go after him," Clyde said. Kyle looked to Wendy, but she was focused on Mrs. Stotch, whispering to her that Butters was a hero, that he'd saved Stan's life by pushing him clear of the worst of the blast. It was a story Stan told often, the only thing he wanted to talk about most days. The opportunity to visit Butters had been the only thing that could motivate him into a wheelchair that first week.

Craig remained motionless, staring at Butters with a kind of grim recognition; he'd seen young men die before. Kyle sighed and moved toward the door, not sure what he could say to console Cartman but unwilling to let him cry alone. He'd only taken one step when Stan grabbed his wrist and held it, hard.

"Not you," Stan said, still looking at Butters.

"I'll go," Clyde said. Wendy had taken over with Mrs. Stotch, holding her while she cried. Stan was still holding Kyle's wrist as Clyde left the room. Kyle tried to meet Stan's eyes, but he was focused on Butters, unblinking.

Kyle and Stan left the hospital together an hour later, after Stan had done his exit paperwork and listened in silence as the nurse described support programs for veterans, paraplegics, and grief in general. They were both numb, quiet, and Kyle couldn't stop thinking of the current location of Butters: was he already in a cold drawer down in the morgue, zipped into a bag? Stan wheeled himself out to the parking lot, refusing Kyle's coat when he tried to offer it. Kyle was carrying Stan's things, which were stuffed in a modest duffel bag, not even a jacket or hooded sweatshirt among them. Who had let him leave the Red Cross without bundling up properly? Kyle had been at Stan's house that morning, receiving the lumber for the ramps, and he'd been furious when he showed up to find that Stan had already been packed off.

"Well, hey!" Jimbo said when he met them at the hospital's front doors. Kyle was extremely grateful that he'd shown up; he must have walked. "How's it going, soldier?" he asked Stan. Kyle winced.

"Bad," Stan said. "Butters is dead. I just want to go home."

"That's where we're headed," Jimbo said, and he gave Kyle a kicked puppy look that Kyle didn't have much sympathy for at the moment. "I'm real sorry to hear it about little Butters. Shit, that poor kid. He died a hero, I tell you what."

Stan said nothing, just wheeled himself out the door. Jimbo and Kyle followed. Kyle was glad not to have to lift Stan into the passenger side of the truck himself, and ashamed of his relief, though he suspected Stan was relieved about this, too. Jimbo hoisted him up while Kyle averted his eyes, busying himself with putting the wheelchair into the truck bed.

"Me and Ned got a big homecoming dinner planned for you," Jimbo said. He was driving, Kyle sitting between them with Stan's duffel bag, hugging it. He needed a hug back from someone, anyone. He should have tried with Wendy, but Stan might have taken it personally.

"I don't want any company," Stan said. "Not tonight."

"Oh, no company involved," Jimbo said. "Just some real good fried chicken, scalloped potatoes, and we even found you some broccoli, didn't we, Kyle?"

"Yes," Kyle said, wishing he would shut up, though he also appreciated the fact that they weren't all stewing in separate silence.

"Gotta stay healthy," Jimbo said, the cheer draining from his voice as he heard what he'd said. Stan just stared out the window.

When they reached the house, Kyle went to unlock the door while Jimbo helped Stan back into his chair. They'd shoveled the front walk in preparation for Stan's return, and the pavement was just wide enough to accommodate both wheels. Kyle was nervous as he watched Stan approach the ramp, afraid that a wheel would slip off the walkway or that the ramp would collapse under his weight. Stan stopped and stared at the thing for a moment, Ned waiting awkwardly in the front doorway. There were good smells coming from the house, but Kyle felt queasy.

"How'd that get here?" Stan asked, still looking at the ramp.

"We built it for ya," Jimbo said. "Me and Kyle, and Clyde Donovan helped. Go on, give it a try!"

The optimism of his tone made Kyle's eyes water with a combination of rage and defeat, and he could see Stan's embarrassment in his hesitation. Had they practiced with ramps at the hospital? What if he rolled backward? Kyle moved to take the handles of the chair, but Stan rolled forward before he could, making it up the ramp with minimal struggle. The thing seemed sturdy enough. Kyle was wiping his eyes as he followed the others in, trying not to be such a goddamn baby. His hands were shaking when he locked the deadbolt behind them.

Jimbo showed Stan around his new room as if he'd never seen the den before, or the bed that they'd brought downstairs for him. It had been in the guest bedroom, a queen-sized mattress with a thin wooden headboard. They had assumed it would be more comfortable than Stan's little twin. Kyle wanted to climb into it with him and sleep until this was all over.

"Can you get in on your own?" Jimbo asked, hovering near Stan as he approached the bed. Stan tried, his face growing redder with each awkward attempt, and he made no protest when Jimbo gave him a hand. "You'll get the hang of it," Jimbo said as Kyle fluffed pillows for Stan to lean against, and Kyle heard a shake in Jimbo's voice. It was subtle, but it was there. Jimbo left the room then, making excuses about helping Ned with the meal. Kyle shut the door behind him.

"I was thinking I'd make a fire?" Kyle said. The den worked well as a makeshift bedroom, because it had doors that could be closed for privacy and there was a guest bedroom attached. The fireplace was a nice feature, too, Kyle thought. Stan was staring into space as if he hadn't heard Kyle's question. Kyle knelt down to get the kindling in place, blinking a kind of fuzz from his eyes that wasn't moisture, exactly.

"You don't have to stay," Stan said.

"What else am I going to do?" Kyle said. He'd prepared himself for Stan's attempt to dismiss him along with Wendy. "You know I've just been sitting around here waiting for you to get home. And I'm tired of volunteering, anyway. I'd rather just hang out with you." He had composed more eloquent versions of this statement in his head. He was nervous, trembling, like Stan was pointing a gun at him.

"Hang out," Stan said, and he scoffed. "No, Kyle. You're not family. You don't have to deal with this."

"The world is falling apart, for all we know," Kyle said, trying to sound angry. Stan could respect anger, maybe. "Just let me do what I want. I want to do this."

Stan was quiet for a while, and Kyle avoided looking at him, concentrating on the fire. Once he'd gotten it going he turned to see that Stan had sunk down into the blankets. He was lying on his side, facing away from the bay window that looked out onto the front yard.

"You asleep?" Kyle asked. Stan sighed.

"They gave me some pills," he said. "I can't sleep without them. They're in my bag with the rest of that shit." He twitched and grunted when his v-chip fired. "I'm getting this thing out," he said. "Soon as they'll let me."

"It's dangerous," Kyle said. "It's like, fifty-fifty whether you'll have brain damage, it's not even legal in California-"

"What do I care about California? Or brain damage? Maybe it'll eff me up enough so I don't know what I am anymore. I'm half vegetable anyway. Might as well go all in."

Kyle didn't tell him not to say that; he was glad Stan was talking at all. There would be time to talk him out of the v-chip removal when he wasn't so angry and exhausted. Kyle went to the bed and sat there, wanting to drop down and spoon himself around Stan, to tuck in and leech comfort from him. He was horrified by his own greed, and settled for touching Stan's blanket-covered shoulder.

"What a fucking day," Kyle said, springing for the curse in honor of Butters. His hand clenched on Stan's shoulder when the shock hit him. It was a particularly bad one, and he felt dizzy afterward, remembering suddenly that he hadn't eaten anything since a modest breakfast of bran cereal with no milk.

"Butters saved me in Dakota," Stan said. Kyle had noticed that veterans never differentiated between Dakotas, and he wasn't sure why. "And for what?" Stan said. He looked down at his legs, and Kyle looked deliberately away from them. "He should have stayed out of it. He always had to be so effing helpful, and - and what was that B.S. with Cartman? I would have gotten up and slugged him if I could have. Lying like that, to a dying kid. That was sick."

"Maybe he was telling the truth," Kyle said.

"Cartman?" Stan lifted his head from the pillow and turned, glaring. "Kyle, he tried to rape you."

Kyle made a kind of protesting sound that died in his throat, looking to the window. It wasn't untrue, but it hurt to hear it said out loud. He felt accused of something himself, dirty.

"So don't give him the benefit of the doubt," Stan said. He was quiet for a moment; Kyle heard him swallow and thought of getting some water. There would need to be a pitcher by the bed, always. "He didn't do anything, did he?" Stan asked. "While I was gone?"

"I can take-" Kyle cut himself off before he could say the rest. Care of myself. Stan couldn't say the same now. Kyle didn't want to gloat. He turned to meet Stan's eyes again. "You're probably right. Cartman probably lied, but at least Butters died believing it. I know it's not ethical, but. It's something."

"Something," Stan said. "That's what I'm supposed to be grateful for. Have they got any whiskey, do you think? Or even a beer, anything?"

"They? Oh." Kyle looked toward the door that led to the kitchen. He could hear Jimbo's voice, and something frying in a pan. His appetite was returning, slowly. "I'll check," Kyle said. "I'll bring you some water, too. Unless you want milk?"

Stan shook his head and turned his back on Kyle, retreating into the blankets again. Kyle wasn't sure if he was refusing milk or just exasperated by Kyle's efforts to take care of him, already.

Jimbo had some cheap bourbon and was all too happy to offer it to Stan. Kyle wanted to ask questions about how it might react with his sleeping pills, but he decided to suspend them for now. He returned to Stan's room with a glass of bourbon and a pitcher of water. Stan seemed to be asleep, so Kyle set both on the bedside table and went to get a glass for the water. When he returned, Stan was slumped against the pillows and the bourbon was gone.

"I'll take another," Stan said, lifting the empty glass.

"Are you hungry?" Kyle asked.

"Sure," Stan said, and he scoffed as if it was a stupid question. "Are they going to make me eat out there? Like it's a special occasion or something?"

"You can eat in here if you want," Kyle said. "Don't worry about Jimbo, he's just trying - you know how he is."

"So are you getting me another?" Stan asked, lifting the glass again.

Stan slept after his second glass of bourbon, and Kyle convinced Jimbo not to wake him for dinner. He ate at the table with Jimbo and Ned, barely tasting his food. He brought a plate in for Stan when he was finished, and added a log to the fire. Stan was twitching in his sleep, moaning.

"You okay?" Kyle asked when he went to the bed. Stan jerked awake when Kyle touched his shoulder, whipping around to look at him. "It's me," Kyle said, and he moved back a little. "You were. Are you okay?" Something felt off; there was an unclean smell wafting from the bed. Kyle thought of Ike when he was little, and helping to change his diapers while their mother was away on national business. Stan was already throwing the blankets aside, muttering half-formed curses that didn't seem to set off his v-chip.

"It's just 'cause I drank," Stan said, glowering down at his wet sweatpants, the ruined sheets. "I don't normally. This wasn't happening much, there. At the clinic."

"It's okay," Kyle said. "We'll just - here." He was standing with his hands halfway stretched out, no idea what to do first. "Do you want me to get Jimbo?" he asked. He felt his dinner lurching in his stomach, and it wasn't just because he detested the smell of urine. It was - this, everything. This was impossible. It couldn't really be happening, not to Stan.

"I can't deal with effing Jimbo right now," Stan said, mumbling. He pulled off his shirt and then sat there glumly in a puddle of piss, Kyle uselessly hovering. "Help me lift up," Stan said, not looking at him.

Kyle steeled himself; it wasn't like he hadn't done this before, at the Red Cross camp. Once he'd even done it for Christophe, who'd cursed him the whole time. He wondered if Christophe would be good company for Stan, eventually, and tried to think about only this as he stripped Stan's pants and underwear off for him, not allowing his eyes to settle in any one place. He helped Stan into a robe and got him into the chair. Stan wheeled himself into the bathroom while Kyle yanked the sheets off the bed; he flinched when the door slammed. The power was on, at least for now, and the light that flicked on inside the bathroom felt like a small blessing. He heard the bathwater turning on, and regarded Stan's untouched plate of food sadly. It would be cold by now, and the Marshes had sold their microwave during hard times. Kyle would bring the one from his house tomorrow.

The Marshes still had laundry machines, at least, and Kyle got fresh sheets after the dirty ones were loaded in. Jimbo and Ned were upstairs somewhere, possibly already asleep. Kyle listened carefully as he fitted the bed with new sheets, and by the sound of it Stan had lowered himself into the bath tub successfully. There was some splashing as he washed himself, then quiet. Kyle waited as long as he could before knocking, stoking the fire and growing ill from the unsettling pound of his own heartbeat.

"Okay in there?" he asked after knocking. He heard a movement in the water; at least Stan hadn't fallen asleep.

"I'm gonna get out," Stan said. His voice was like a frightened animal, trying to make itself bigger and scarier in vain.

"Need help?" Kyle asked, his hand on the knob.

"No."

They both stayed quiet for a moment. Kyle wasn't sure what kind of 'no' that was, but he was afraid to burst in and contradict Stan. After a moment, he heard the water sloshing, Stan's palm sliding on the railing. He felt hopeful, and then came a thundering crash, the wheelchair slamming into the wall, Stan's cursing.

"Okay, here, okay," Kyle said when he entered, trying not to look directly at anything. Stan was soaked and splayed on the floor, groping at the wheelchair, which was on its side. Kyle got the robe and put it on Stan before doing anything else, propping him up before tying the sash. He didn't even need to look at Stan to know that he was trying not to cry; he was trying so hard that the air in the bathroom seemed to tremble. "Here we go," Kyle said, and he told himself to shut up, to just shut the hell up altogether, because he sounded like he was talking to a toddler. He righted the chair and lifted Stan into it, surprised by how heavy he was.

"I can't even curse," Stan said. His voice was shaking, and his hand was, too, when he brought it up to cover his eyes. "I can't even say what I want to right now." The shocks were always worse when you were wet.

"I know," Kyle said. "Fuck." He jerked at the shock, hoping Stan would be comforted by his pain. "Goddammit."

Stan rolled out of the bathroom, sniffling. Kyle drained the tub. When he returned to the bedroom, Stan had crawled from the chair into the bed and was slumped there lifelessly, not answering when Jimbo knocked and asked if they were alright.

"It's fine!" Kyle called. "Just a slip. Everything's fine."

There was quiet, then Jimbo's footsteps on the stairs. Stan was sobbing into the mattress, bouncing with heavy jerks of his shoulders and making no sound so far. Kyle couldn't take it anymore. He dropped the towel he'd carried out for Stan and went to the bed, sliding onto Stan's back and pressing his wet face to Stan's neck.

"I know, I know," Kyle murmured, putting his arms around Stan slowly, afraid he would be bucked off. "I know."

"You don't know anything," Stan said, his voice buried against the mattress.

"I know," Kyle said, and he rolled his eyes at himself. "I mean. I'm just. I know I should stop talking."

Stan didn't refute this. His sobs turned to hiccups and shaky intakes of breath. Kyle wanted to lie there with him forever, pressing Stan down where he was safe, where he could hide.

"Do you want to eat?" Kyle asked. He would restrict his conversation to practical matters. He would be as useful as he could. "There's some cold chicken and potatoes over there. And broccoli."

Stan sniffled. He was warm and smelled like soap. Kyle was aware of how disgusting it was to take even the smallest amount of pleasure from the fact that Stan was willing to be held, to have Kyle this close.

"I wish I was dead," Stan said. Kyle shook his head against the back of Stan's neck, unwilling to try a response. "I feel like." He sniffled again, wetly. "Like I'm only alive as a favor to my mother. And Jimbo, like I owe him anything."

"Jimbo's not so bad."

"And you," Stan said. "Kyle." He stretched one arm across the mattress, gripping the edge of it, his face still hidden. "I lost my pack in that field where this happened. Your letters were in it."

"It doesn't matter," Kyle said. "You're here now, and. God, Stan, I missed you. I already don't know how I got through the days."

"It's not gonna be like before."

"I know," Kyle said. He wanted to gush about how he would never leave Stan, that Stan would never have to be alone with this, but he doubted that now was the time for that, and it was probably obvious, anyway. "Hey, eat something," he said, though he didn't want to move. "At least have some water."

Stan sat up and allowed Kyle to push a glass of water into his hand. He drank from it in gulps, then accepted the plate of food. At first he just picked at the potatoes, but he was tearing the chicken off the bone with his teeth before long. Kyle sat next to him on the bed, making no attempt to conceal that he was finding this fascinating, just watching Stan eat.

"Don't throw your life away for me," Stan said when he was almost finished, still chewing.

"What life?" Kyle said. "Ike is gone. My dad is gone, my mom is dead. Kenny's dead, and Butters. Half the country wants to hang me because of who my mom was. I'm here for good, Stan. And I don't mind, as long as you're with me."

"What about a wife?" Stan said, staring at his plate. "Children?"

"You know I don't want that," Kyle said, his heart pumping hard. It was like Stan had read that confiscated letter without actually needing to see it, or maybe he had always known. The air in the room felt slightly heavier, but not uncomfortably so.

"Don't let me be a stand in for a real guy," Stan said, presumably meaning a gay one. Or maybe one with working legs, or. Other functioning parts. "When my mom comes back, you have to let her take over."

"Just don't cut me out," Kyle said. "Wendy, she. She wants so badly to have you in her life-"

"She'll get over it," Stan said. "You would, too, I suspect."

"It's not the same," Kyle said. "I'd never feel - without you, I'm not me."

Stan sighed and put down his last chicken bone, cleaned of meat. Kyle passed him the napkin from the bedside table and watched him wipe his hands. The fire needed stoking, those bedsheets would need to go into the dryer soon, and Jimbo and Ned had left most of the dirty dishes for Kyle, since they'd cooked. There was plenty to do, but he didn't want to leave Stan to sit and think.

"The cable doesn't work anymore, but we could watch videos," Kyle said.

"I'd kill for a Terrance and Phillip one," Stan said. "I wish I'd been fighting for them. We wanted to, didn't we? When we were kids? Our little movement?"

"I'm sure they exist somewhere," Kyle said, taking the plate. "Videos, I mean. I'll look into it."

"Don't," Stan said. "You'll get arrested. Forget it."

"We could probably act them all out from memory, anyway," Kyle said. "Ey, Phillip?"

Stan stared at him for a moment, then his mouth quirked in an irritable little smile that really wasn't one at all.

"It's not gonna be like before," Stan said. Kyle nodded, the wind knocked out of him, and he turned for the kitchen. "Bring me a bourbon when you come back in?" Stan said.

"Are you sure?" Kyle asked, turning back only halfway. There weren't any more clean sheets.

"Fine, right," Stan said. Kyle hadn't heard him sound so angry since that night at Butters' house, when Stan had torn Cartman off of him. "I guess that's over, too."

"You can have one, just-"

"Forget it," Stan said, and he pulled the blankets up over his head.

Kyle went into the kitchen, set the plate on the counter and stared out at the backyard for a long time, waiting for a jump cut that wouldn't come. He wanted to skip to five years from now, or ten. He'd even take five months. Anything, anyplace that wasn't this one, this first day and all the days ahead. Stan was broken forever, and half the people they'd once known were dead. Kyle realized with a stab of shame that he wanted his mother. But she would not know how to fix this. She was the one who broke it.

He couldn't hate her, but when he returned to the room and couldn't get Stan to meet his eyes when he brought him his sleeping pill, he wanted to.

"So," Kyle said, lingering after an unnecessary adjustment to the fire. "Goodnight, I guess, um. I'll sleep on the couch, so if you need anything, just-"

"C'mere," Stan said. Kyle wondered how fast those pills worked, not sure if he was afraid or hopeful that Stan was already half asleep. He climbed into the bed and slid under the blankets when Stan held them up. Kyle moved closer, and closer, until he could smell Stan's fried chicken breath. How would Stan brush his teeth? Kyle hadn't thought of that, hadn't even remembered to brush his own. "I don't really want to be alone," Stan said. He was already blinking heavily, slipping under.

"Me either," Kyle said.

"I know you don't, dude," Stan said. "That's why. That worries me." He closed his eyes, only faking sleep for a moment before he sunk into the real thing.

Kyle slept fitfully, his dreams a sour mixture of loved ones in peril, just out of his reach: Butters being choked by Cartman and Stan walking through a minefield, deaf to Kyle's shouts of warning. He dreamed about his father's car being drug from the bottom of a frozen lake after the thaw, and Ike on an electric chair between Terrence and Phillip. When he woke he clung to Stan, who was out cold. Kyle tracked Stan's breathing obsessively, pressing the back of his hand to Stan's parted lips to feel the heat of it. At dawn, he remembered the wet bedsheets that were probably growing icy in the washing machine, and he slipped from the bed, hurrying into his jacket and boots.

He rekindled the fire first, fretting about their firewood supply, three long months of winter still to come. He tried to put the sheets in the dryer, only to find that the power was out again. He was halfway through the dishes, the sun barely up, when the front bell rang. When it was clear that Jimbo and Ned weren't going to rouse to answer it he went himself, checking through the window before unlatching the door. It was Wendy. He groaned under his breath, not ready for this.

"You look like you just woke up," Wendy said when Kyle pulled the door open.

"It's six in the morning," Kyle said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Or is it? How is he?"

"Sleeping," Kyle said. "Let me get my coat - we can talk in the yard."

"I'm not even allowed in his house?"

"I don't want to be overheard," Kyle said, though by the look of it Stan would probably sleep until noon.

He bundled up for the cold and walked with Wendy down to the end of the driveway, under the pretense of checking the mail. Every time he opened the box he feared some mysterious new gift, but nothing had come after the pack of cigarettes that he'd thrown away.

"How was Cartman when Clyde found him?" Kyle asked before Wendy could start in on the Stan interrogation.

"Oh, he was - confounding, I guess," she said. "He told Clyde to get away from him, that he was a fag - Clyde was, that is - and that he'd only said that stuff to Butters because he was going to die anyway. Who knows what goes on in his head, he's sick. How's Stan?"

"He's okay," Kyle said. He decided not to mention the bath tub incident. Stan wouldn't want her having a mental image of that, and certainly the bed wetting was off limits. "He's pretty into drinking."

"Well, don't let him be!" Wendy said, frowning. "God, Kyle, I knew you were going to coddle him. You have to be firm, even if he fights you."

"He's not an effing dog who needs to be housebroken," Kyle said. "It's not like I'm going to keep the liquor flowing all day long. It was his first night back home, and he was really freaked."

"He was?" Wendy's face fell. "I mean, of course he was. God, how long is this standoff going to last? I need to be with him, I need-" She trailed off, and took a deep breath. "Has he been surly with you?"

"A little," Kyle said. He definitely wasn't going to mention the fact that he got to cuddle up to Stan all night, and that even with Stan passed out like dead weight, having him there was an instant comfort when Kyle woke from his nightmares. "He ate a full meal, so. That was good."

"Are you going to come for your shift today?"

"No," Kyle said. "I'll stay with him. As long as he needs me to. He did tell me, last night-" He paused, not sure he should have brought this up. "That, um. He doesn't want to be alone."

"I'm sure he only admitted as much after a few drinks," Wendy said, tightly. "Okay, well. Take a few days to let him mope if that's what he needs, but you need to get back to the Red Cross as soon as possible, and bring Stan with you. He can play cards with the other guys, and help us with paperwork-"

"I don't know if he's going to be into that," Kyle said.

"Of course he won't be, at first! But you have to demand it of him, it's the only way he's going to acclimate into society. You have to help him do what's right for himself, even if it's hard. Even if he looks at you like he hates you." She turned away from Kyle, toward the sound of a stray dog's claws clicking along the icy pavement. "Butters' funeral is on Saturday," she said. "I'm helping Linda with the arrangements. She's barely functional."

"That's nice of you," Kyle said, glad to hear that she had a project.

"How was his bladder control last night?" Wendy asked, more quietly. Kyle made a face.

"Fine, as far as I could tell." He could see Wendy noticing his blush. She was a difficult person to lie to. "I'd better go," Kyle said. "I've got a ton of work to do around the house."

"Get Stan to help you if you can," Wendy said. "Even something as simple as chopping vegetables. He likes to feel needed."

"He's not the same guy," Kyle said, and it hurt to say so. Her eyes hardened, and she raised her lip slightly.

"Like I don't know that? He needs to get counseling. He's like any of them, he's. He's going to be okay, Kyle, eventually. Don't let him suck you into his depression. He's very lucky to be alive."

"Wendy," Kyle said. "I know. But you're not thinking about - I mean. Think about what he's lost."

"You think I can't understand because I'm not a man?" She made a disgusted face that crumbled into something pitiful but still angry. "I lost that, too, Kyle," she said. "I know it's not the same, but that part of him was mine, once. Well, not mine, but. It was a part of who we were, together."

She left then, and he didn't have the heart to try to call her back or the maturity to apologize. He walked back to the house slowly, trying to imagine what that would be like: to have Stan that way, and to get him back after fearing him lost forever, but without that intimacy, that joy, that feeling of completeness. He knew Stan was mourning it, too, and not just the idea of never having it again, which he surely couldn't wrap his head around yet, but the loss of it with Wendy specifically. Kyle spent the morning in the kitchen, taking stock of the Marsh pantry and imagining that Stan would have gotten Wendy pregnant right away if she'd been willing when he came home, as a kind of celebration of life. Kyle would have hated them for it. He hated himself, now, for knowing that.

"How's my little nephew doing?" Jimbo asked when he came into the kitchen, looking sleepy. Ned was with him, already smoking, wearing a robe over his pajamas. Their sense of needing to stand guard at all times had faded considerably since Ike departed.

"Maybe don't call him little," Kyle said, trying not to sound bitchy. "And he's fine, I guess. Sleeping. I'm going in to check on him now, in fact."

Stan was indeed still sleeping, and he slept away most of the afternoon, grunting disagreeably at Kyle's suggestions that he eat something. Kyle sent Jimbo to the market with a list of supplies to get, including more bourbon. He didn't want to rob Stan of every simple pleasure; they would just have to be more careful. At three o'clock, he decided enough was enough and went in to wake Stan.

"Are you alright?" Kyle asked. He sat on the bed and touched Stan's forehead to check his temperature. "You've been asleep for like fifteen hours."

Stan moaned, his eyes still closed. He felt a little overly warm to Kyle, and he wondered if Stan would be willing to let him take his temperature.

"Wendy came over this morning," Kyle said, testing to see if this would get a reaction. Stan blinked his eyes halfway open, his face still pressed to the pillow.

"I don't want to see her," he said, mumbling.

"I know you don't. But she's thinking about you. I'm sure that's not surprising to hear. She thinks you should come volunteer at the Red Cross with us."

Stan scoffed. "Fuck that," he said, and he groaned when his v-chip went off. He rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes. He looked so normal, perfectly intact, from this angle.

"I didn't think you'd be interested," Kyle said. "I told her that."

Stan left his arm draped over his eyes and said nothing. Kyle looked to the window; it was already getting darker outside. Jimbo was still at the market, and Ned was off somewhere negotiating a firewood purchase.

"Are you going to sleep again?" Kyle asked, poking Stan.

"Do you want something?" Stan snapped, and Kyle didn't recognize him when he took his arm away from his eyes. He was viper-like, ready to strike. His face changed a little when he saw Kyle's expression, and Kyle stood from the bed. "I mean, I haven't earned the right to stay in bed for one effing day?" Stan said, more mildly. He sounded embarrassed by his outburst, and Kyle hated making him feel guilty. He knew he shouldn't object to being Stan's punching bag, at least at the start.

"You can," Kyle said, but he was thinking about what Wendy had said, that Stan liked feeling needed. It was true, and Kyle knew he wasn't going to do Stan any favors by letting him stay here indefinitely, sneaking him bourbon and quietly changing his wet sheets. "I was thinking about your mother, though," Kyle said, and he turned back to the bed. "When she comes home. She's been through a lot, and she'll be - God knows what she'll have seen. I think it would be a nice thing, for her, to see you doing okay. You know what I mean?"

"No," Stan said, sourly. "I don't know what 'okay' means for someone like this. Like me. Breathing? Not sitting in a puddle of piss? That's a start. What the hell else am I supposed to do?"

"You don't have to do anything," Kyle said, quick to back down. Stan sat up a little, his shoulders propped against his pillow. He seemed to still be listening, at least. "I'm just saying. Your mom could find you in here when she comes back, or she could find you at the Red Cross, helping other vets get through this. Obviously you don't have to do anything right away. It's just something to think about."

"I can't help anyone," Stan said. "I can't even pull myself onto the toilet without help. Or can I? Let's find out." He groped for his chair, and Kyle moved to get it for him, but Stan was able to slide into it on his own. The sight of his legs thunking heavily from the mattress to the chair was gut wrenching, like watching a loved one's lifeless body be thrown from a ship. Stan picked up one socked foot and placed it onto the leg rest, then the other.

"Should I come with you?" Kyle asked as Stan wheeled toward the bathroom.

"Let me try it on my own first," Stan said, mumbling. He turned back to Kyle just before he'd reached the bathroom door. "Do you get it now?" he asked. "Why I didn't want Wendy around, trying to wipe my ass for me? Pretending she didn't mind?"

"I do understand," Kyle said. "I never said you were wrong about that, did I? I just think you could still be friends."

"Eff you, Kyle," Stan said. "You don't think I considered that? And how excruciating it would be for both of us? Jesus Christ." He wheeled himself into the bathroom and closed the door hard behind him.

Kyle's eyes watered with shame, and he wondered if he should leave the room, just leave Stan alone. He knew he was being unfair, insensitive, but treating Wendy like invisible garbage wasn't going to work as a long term plan, and Stan would hate himself for it someday. Kyle heard the sound of piss hitting water and thought about Stan having to pee sitting down. There were so many mini humiliations waiting to be uncovered, below the largest ones that everyone would be thinking about when they saw Stan now.

There was some awkward-sounding shuffling, but Stan managed to make it back to the door and open it, firmly in his chair. Kyle decided not to mention that he hadn't washed his hands.

"Look," Stan said, lingering in the doorway of the bathroom. "I don't want to talk about Wendy with you. I know you're just trying to be nice or something, but you really don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Fine," Kyle said. "I mean, I know. I've never had anyone. I know."

"Just drop it," Stan said, eyes narrowing. "Everything you say on the subject only pisses me off more."

"I just said I understand! I wasn't being sarcastic!"

"Yeah, but you don't effing understand, Kyle, because you _will_ have someone, someday. You're only eighteen. You're going to stand there feeling sorry for yourself because you didn't get laid during high school? Really?"

"I'm not feeling sorry for myself!" Kyle was shouting, wanting the volume of his voice to convince Stan that he hadn't said any of this to hurt him, that he could never feel more sorry for himself than he did for Stan.

"Everything alright in there?" Jimbo asked, speaking through the door. Stan groaned.

"We're fine," he said. "Mind your own business."

"Don't talk to him like that," Kyle said, whispering. He pictured Jimbo retreating to the kitchen in tears.

"You're much bigger on telling me what to do than I thought you'd be," Stan said.

"I know things are different," Kyle said, forcing himself to calm down. "But I just want to be able to talk to you, even if I end up making an ass of myself, which I obviously will. I hated how it was as the Red Cross, how I didn't know what to say so I didn't say anything at all. Did you like it that way? Me tiptoeing around you like a scared mouse? Do you want it to stay that way?"

"Fuck no," Stan said. He gritted his teeth and curled his fists, bearing out the shock. His face softened as the pain receded, and Kyle watched him take a few deep breaths. Kyle's heart was pounding. He hadn't expected to have this conversation, not ever, and especially not right away. But this was Stan. He didn't know how to hide his feelings from Stan, except for that one very crucial feeling.

"I'm sorry," Kyle said. "I don't want to be a dick, to say stupid things, but. I don't want to pretend, either, or treat you like you're made of glass."

"Well," Stan said, and his eyes watered a little. Kyle wasn't sure if he should let on that he'd noticed. "I actually, like. Appreciate that. I mean. Thanks."

"Um," Kyle said. He was flushed as if he'd confessed something, and he supposed he had. "I guess Jimbo's back from the market. You want to come out and get something to eat?"

"Fine," Stan said, and he sighed, rubbing his face, as if Kyle was asking a lot of him. "I shouldn't have yelled at Jimbo."

"He'll get over it," Kyle said.

Kyle had sent Jimbo out with an especially indulgent shopping list, though they weren't exactly financially secure in recent months. This was a special occasion, and Stan's willingness to chow down on that fried chicken had been heartening for Kyle. If Stan was going to take comfort in food, Kyle was going to provide it. He'd find the money somehow.

"Oh, dude, these are too expensive," Stan said when Kyle laid a bag of Cheesy Poofs on the table. "Don't blow your money on this junk." Even as he said so he was handling the bag with wonder, almost stroking it.

"It's just a welcome home gift," Kyle said. "I hope Cartman didn't rip you off," he said to Jimbo, who was milling around with his tail between his legs.

"I got those from Barbrady," Jimbo said. "He traded me for some ammo, said he'd been hoarding them for months. Cartman's booth was closed."

"Seriously?" Kyle said. "Craig wasn't there, even?"

"Nope, totally closed," Jimbo said. "People were gossiping at the butcher stand, saying Cartman got his heart broke when Butters died."

"Cartman doesn't have a heart," Stan said. "It's some kind of scheme. Believe me." He looked to Kyle, expecting him to agree. Kyle nodded, though he wasn't so sure.

Clyde and Craig appeared on the doorstep later that evening, Clyde bearing a box full of his mother's homemade toffee. Kyle expected Stan to turn them away, but he invited them in, and they sat in the living room for a while, everyone but Kyle telling war stories. Kyle still wanted to ask how Kenny had died, but he didn't dare. Stan would tell him when he was ready.

"Here's to Butters," Clyde said when Jimbo poured them all a round of bourbon. He did not know about the bed wetting incident; Kyle was nervous as he watched Stan drain his glass quickly after the toast.

"You coming to the funeral?" Craig asked, directing this to Stan. Kyle had been afraid to ask, and he was relieved when Stan nodded solemnly, looking down in this glass.

"Of course," he said.

"I didn't go anywhere for two months after I first got back," Craig said. "I felt deformed."

"Think Cartman will show up?" Clyde said, perhaps to change the subject, because Stan still staring down into his glass.

"I'm sure he will," Kyle said. "After that display at the hospital."

"I don't know, man," Clyde said. "You should have heard him when I tried to comfort him after all that. I know he's prideful and immature, but he was livid, telling me I was stupid to fall for that, that it was all fake, that he was just trying to get Butters' mother to leave him some money. It was pretty gross, even if he was just being defensive. I mean, Butters had been dead for five minutes, and Cartman was already talking like that."

"I bet he'll come," Kyle said.

"It's fucking sick," Stan said, and the sharpness in his voice made Kyle's skin prickle with goosebumps. "It's sick that Cartman is alive, and guys like Kenny and Butters are dead." He looked up from his glass, finally. "Any news about Bebe?" he asked.

"No," Clyde said. Another silence fell over the room. Craig was drumming his finger against the side of his empty glass, his nail making a clicking sound.

"You should have seen her, man," Stan said. "Bebe, she was. Not the best soldier in our unit, but fearless, and everyone trusted her completely, she was just so-" He shook his head. "I don't mean to talk in the past tense," he said.

"It's fine," Clyde said, tightly. "I knew what you meant."

He and Craig left shortly afterward, and Kyle was glad to see them go, though he was also glad that Stan had been willing to entertain them. Stan took a piss before getting in bed, easing Kyle's fears somewhat. He wasn't sure what to do with himself when Stan returned from the bathroom. Should he get in the bed? Go out to sleep on the couch? They had both brushed their teeth already; Jimbo had brought home a fresh toothbrush for Stan, and Ned had collected Kyle's from his house, along with a list of other things he'd been too absentminded to pack. Things were settling into place, but Kyle wasn't sure where this left him, in terms of sleeping arrangements.

"Was that mean of me?" Stan asked as he rolled toward the bed. "Bringing up Bebe?"

"No, not at all," Kyle said. He was standing near the door to the living room, hugging his elbows. The Marsh household was drafty, and the whole first floor got cold at night.

"I think it was, a little," Stan said. He was muttering, staring at the bed in preparation for vaulting himself into it. Every dismount was still awkward at best, heart wrenching at worst. "It's like I wanted to hurt him," Stan said. "Because he's still in one piece. I bet he'll wear his effing medals to Butters' funeral. God, I'd bet you a million dollars, he will. I'm not wearing mine, and he can kiss my butt if he has a problem with it. And Craig - that comment about feeling deformed? Like I wouldn't have taken one less eye and a limp over this?"

"Craig's an a-hole," Kyle said. He had taken objection to that comment, too.

"I can't stand being around these people," Stan said, mumbling, and he sort of flopped into the bed, crawling forward with his arms until he'd pulled his legs in.

"I never know when I should help you and when I should stay back," Kyle said, hoping this wasn't the wrong thing to say. Everything was the wrong thing, but he couldn't shut himself up. "You can just tell me. If you want to make rules. And I don't know - should I sleep in here? With you? I don't want to crowd you, um. Or anything."

Stan said nothing for a long moment, and Kyle was sure that he was trying to figure out how to politely refuse Kyle's offer to spoon him.

"Aren't you afraid I'll pee on you?" Stan asked. For a second Kyle thought it was a joke. Then he was sure that it wasn't.

"No," Kyle said.

"But you hate pee. You had to - and you hate it, it's like, one of your worst things-"

"That's not even close to one of my worst things," Kyle said. "Not anymore. Every day you were gone, I would have swallowed two gallons of pee to have you back. More than that. I would - I would be a fish who lives in a river of pee, Stan, if that was the alternative to losing you."

"That's the thing, see," Stan said, pointing at him. "That's the mother effing thing, everybody saying they didn't lose me, at least they didn't lose me, at least I'm here. They lost that guy, though, and it's like nobody's even noticed. That guy is gone, Kyle. He got lost, and I don't even get to be sad about it."

"Yes, you do," Kyle said, his voice pinching up. He still thought, all the time, about what Stan had said before he left, that he would get lost without Kyle up there. "I wish I could have come," Kyle said, not sure Stan would follow his thought process.

"No," Stan said. "You don't know how glad I am that you're still the same."

"I'm not, though," Kyle said, and he chewed his tongue to keep from crying. He'd never been much of a crier; lately it was out of embarrassment more than anything. He felt ridiculous when Stan looked at him like he was just a dumb kid who needed protecting, somebody who should be glad to know so little about the real world. Mostly because he knew there was truth in that assessment.

"Don't say you're not the same." Stan put his hand out, reaching for Kyle. "Even if it's true, don't tell me that. C'mere."

They got under the blankets together, and Kyle clung, hiding his face against Stan's chest. Stan's heart was beating against his cheek, and his arms were tight around Kyle, stronger than they'd been when he left home. His breath was warm against the crown of Kyle's head. All the important stuff was still here. Kyle would make Stan see this in time, somehow. He'd find the Stan that had been lost, take his hand, and lead him home.


	6. Chapter 6

It seemed as if the entire town turned up for Butters' funeral, with the very obvious exception of Cartman. Tweek, Ruby and Craig were all in attendance, and Kyle supposed Cartman's excuse was that he had to stay and run his booth, which had both reopened and expanded. Normally Kyle would have taken Cartman's increasing financial success as very bad news, but he seemed to have reached a stage in his black market career where he could charge fair prices for a wider variety of products, including some fruits and vegetables that hadn't been seen in South Park in years. No one was sure who his supplier was. Wendy was investigating him, quietly.

Stan was silent during the ride to the funeral, and he did not want to mingle before or after the service. Kyle had expected this, and nodded in agreement when Stan expressed a lack of interest in attending the reception. Stan had been right about Clyde: he was wearing his full dress uniform, including medals. Craig was wearing his as well, and Kyle thought he looked uncomfortable. As they were leaving the cemetery, Kyle thought he saw Kenny lurking in the distance, crossing between mausoleums and smoking a cigarette. He suspected it was some sort of trick of the light or stress-induced hallucination, and he didn't mention it to Stan.

"What did you think of the service?" Kyle asked when they were on their way back to the house in the truck. Jimbo and Ned had stayed for the reception.

"Pretty much what I expected," Stan said. "That religious bullshit."

Kyle was afraid to ask Stan if he still believed in God. He felt as if he heard the answer anyway, in the heavy silence that followed.

"There's supposed to be a bad storm tonight," Kyle said, though Stan had been there during these conversations at the church and the graveside, too. "People were, you know. Saying so, anyway."

"Well, we've got food," Stan said. He sounded only mildly irritated, and this was such a cheerful development that Kyle wanted to touch Stan's shoulder with gratitude. Anytime they had a banal exchange that wasn't filled with stomach-clenching emotional weight, Kyle's heart soared.

"Tweek looked awful, did you notice?" Kyle asked. "I haven't seen him around the market much lately, not even at Cartman's booth. I think that was the first time I'd seen him since you guys got home." He regretted saying 'you guys,' because Butters was dead, and 'home,' because he feared that what they'd offered Stan at his house hardly felt like that.

"He never looked that great to me to begin with," Stan said. "In school he was always hunched and tense. Especially after his parents, you know."

"Yeah," Kyle said. Tweek's father had been killed in combat, and his mother had been killed when the movie theater was bombed; Tweek Brothers Coffee had been right next door. "Do we know anyone with a surviving set of parents?" Kyle asked.

"Wendy," Stan said. "And Clyde." He scoffed.

"You must worry about Bebe," Kyle said.

"She was doing okay when they packed me off," Stan said. "Crying, and. I didn't really get the memo that Butters wasn't going to make it until we got home. Bebe knew, I think. She said her goodbyes. Effing Cartman. He couldn't tear himself away from his empire for an hour, just out of respect for Butters' mom?"

"Nothing he does surprises me," Kyle said, though that wasn't true, and perhaps Stan knew where Kyle's thoughts had wandered to, because he reached over to touch Kyle's thigh.

"I still have dreams where you let me kill him," Stan said.

"Stan," Kyle said, disturbed. He was sorry for his tone when Stan took his hand away. "It took me a long time to figure out that he's not even worth hating," Kyle said.

"It's not like I'm sitting here making the decision to hate him," Stan said. "I just do."

The house was quiet and chilly when they returned, and Kyle made a fire in the den, which he was beginning to think of as a bedroom that belonged partially to him. Stan was in the kitchen, putting together a snack of some kind. They'd done their best to move everything into his reach, but he still couldn't use the kitchen sink.

"Want to talk about our memories of Butters or something?" Kyle asked, feeling awkward as he stood watching Stan eat some black market peanut butter off of stale government issue bread.

"Well," Stan said, his mouth full. "I remember the first time he killed somebody, if you want to hear about that."

"I don't know," Kyle said. He sat beside Stan, dragging his chair closer. "Do I?"

"It wasn't anything too dramatic," Stan said. "We exchanged fire with some Canadians in Montana, near the border, when we were on a restocking mission. It was me, Butters, a guy from California and two senior officers. There were just three guys who ran up on us, and we mowed them down, and then there was this fourth guy who came out of nowhere, and Butters was the one who got him. I guess we were all sort of stunned, and congratulating him, because he'd never had good aim in BCT." Stan was holding what was left of his bread with both hands, staring at it. "He got real quiet and white. Everybody knew he didn't really want to be there. He was just trying to impress his old man, and, Jesus, maybe Cartman, too. He didn't find out about his dad until we got back."

"What did you do with the bodies?" Kyle asked. "Of the Canadians, I mean?" He wasn't sure if he should add that Stan didn't have to tell him if he didn't want to.

"Well, Kyle, what do you think?" Stan asked, and he laughed meanly. "We took their guns and left the rest for the wolves. The wolf population is out of control, did you know that? Do they tell you that kind of stuff, here? I'd never heard it. They're not normally scavengers, but I guess the lower tier wolves who might have starved otherwise, they'd been feasting easy for ten years. When we'd have to camp on the trek between the forts, Jesus, it was horrible. The howling, I mean. There were stories about smaller units being eaten alive by some of the big packs."

"God," Kyle said. He'd wanted some peanut butter himself, but now he felt sick. Stan set the rest of his bread down and wiped his hands on his pants.

"You asked," Stan said.

"I'm not mad," Kyle said. "I want to hear this. You didn't tell me this kind of stuff. In your letters, I mean."

"I didn't have much time for writing once we were in the shit." Stan winced and pounded the table with his fist. "I need to see about having this chip out," he said.

"Please," Kyle said. "I know it's frustrating, but-"

"You don't know what frustration is, okay?" Stan said. He left the table, wheeling himself into the bedroom. Fairly sure that he shouldn't follow, Kyle made himself busy with chores until Jimbo and Ned returned. He was glad to have the noise of them in the house again, something to listen to other than the silence from the den and imaginary wolves howling in his head.

"Where's the big guy?" Jimbo asked. He had about a thousand different nicknames for Stan, all of them well-intentioned but demeaning.

"Having a nap," Kyle said. He lowered his voice. "I think it look a lot out of him, today."

"Well, I'm sure that's true," Jimbo said. He took off his furry hunting hat, and without its shadow on his face Kyle could see that he'd shed tears. "What a sad day."

"Would you like some whiskey?" Ned asked, already getting it down.

"I would," Jimbo said. "Kyle?"

"No, thanks." He left them to their drinking and slipped into the den. The fire was still going strong, and Stan was slumped on the bed, the curtains open to the fading late afternoon light. "Here comes the snow," Kyle said, not sure that Stan was awake. He went to the window to watch it fall, and found himself wishing for a blizzard, though lasting out a bad one would be a nightmare.

"Sounds like they're having a drink out there," Stan said. Jimbo and Ned were chipping ice from the back patio into their glasses, a normal custom for them that Kyle found ridiculous.

"I could get you one?" Kyle said. Stan hadn't had an accident since that first night. He had a fairly routine bathroom schedule, and Kyle got the feeling that half the time he just went in as a precaution.

"Yeah, please," Stan said. "And get one for yourself," he said when Kyle was halfway to the door. "Jesus, Kyle. I know everything's terrible for you, too. I do know that."

"Not as terrible as when you were gone," Kyle said, and he wanted to take that back, because at least while Stan was away he still had the use of his legs. "I mean, when I didn't know if you were okay. When I'd stopped getting letters."

"You haven't heard from your dad or Ike, still?" Stan asked. He lifted his head a little. His hair was all messed up, pressed flat on one side and standing up on the other.

"No," Kyle said. He thought of them in a thick wood somewhere, surrounded by wolves. "I'll, um. I'll get a drink, too, yeah. Be right back."

He returned with the drinks, glad to find Stan sitting up in bed and looking toward the window, at the falling snow. Kyle climbed in with him, sat with his shoulder pressed to Stan's and brought his knees up to his chest. Stan didn't look at him, but he reached over to hug Kyle's knees to his side.

"Here's to Butters, right?" Kyle said.

"Yeah," Stan said. They toasted and drank. Kyle glanced over to watch Stan's throat bob. "I think this will be harder in the summer," Stan said.

"What will?"

"Just. Living like this." He turned to Kyle, hugging his legs more tightly. "Right now it's like, well. This is where I'd be anyway. Inside, by the fire. It'll be hard when the weather's nice."

"I'll still be here," Kyle said. He knew that was a small comfort, or maybe no comfort at all, but he didn't know what else to say. He drank more and rested his cheek on Stan's shoulder, melting against him. He was always a little afraid to initiate touches if they weren't settling in for sleep, but the drink was making him bold.

"You're not a human crutch," Stan said.

"I know," Kyle said. "I'm your best friend."

"Craig today," Stan said, and Kyle was glad for the change of subject, though he worried Stan had thought of Craig in relation to Clyde, and Craig's obvious infatuation with him. "In that uniform. Jesus."

"He looked like somebody from a comic book," Kyle said, and he realized that was inappropriate and cruel, because he'd mostly been referring to the combination of Craig's military uniform and the eye patch.

"I could never believe it about Craig leaving school to join up," Stan said. "I know he just followed Clyde, but still."

"I would have only been following you," Kyle said. He'd been afraid to tell Stan so, but he wanted to show Stan his every vulnerability now, or at least all the ones that wouldn't make Stan feel as if he owed Kyle something. "You knew that, didn't you?" Kyle said when Stan was quiet.

"I guess," Stan said. "I knew I was selfish for wanting you to."

"That's bull, I was selfish for wanting to go along. I would have been some kind of liability, I'm sure."

"Don't underestimate yourself," Stan said. "But I'm glad, you know. I'm glad you weren't there, hearing things go snap in the woods at night and not knowing if it was a tree branch breaking or a wolf tearing the arm off some corpse. God, sorry."

"It's weird," Kyle said. "It's upsetting, hearing that, but I feel, like. Glad to hear it. I want you to talk to me, um. If you want to."

"Kyle," Stan said, and he sighed. Kyle wasn't sure if it was an admonishment or an endearment, but he decided it was probably the latter when Stan's arms wrapped around him. "I'm still sorry I lost your letters," Stan said, mumbling this into Kyle's hair. His glass was empty and he sounded a little tipsy. "They were so great. Like hearing your voice."

"I remember you saying that. You should have seen me here, at the mailbox. My heart used to pound when I even saw the envelopes, your handwriting." Kyle was possibly tipsy, too; he finished his drink and pressed his face to Stan's neck. There was nothing that calmed him as quickly as the feeling of Stan's pulse against his cheek.

"Did you worry I was dead?" Stan asked. "When the letters stopped coming?"

"Well, of course," Kyle said, but then he thought about it a bit more. "Or maybe not? I think I decided I would feel it if you were gone. Remember, I promised not to die until you do? I felt like you would have shown up and asked me to come along."

"I probably would have," Stan said. "Selfish prick that I am. I know I've been a pain in the ass." He moaned a little when the v-chip fired, his embrace tightening. Kyle wanted to extract himself to stop his arousal from solidifying, but he also didn't want to draw attention to it. In the mornings, he kept his boners as discreet as he could. "Is this weird for you?" Stan asked. Kyle shifted, wondering if Stan had noticed his dick.

"No," Kyle said. "For you?"

"I don't know," Stan said. "Maybe. Sometimes? But it's also, like. Other than whiskey, it's the only thing that feels good anymore."

"Mhmm," Kyle said. He was too sleepy and warm to attach much significance to this exchange. It felt natural, and mostly non-sexual, though Kyle's cock was hard at the moment, mostly from that sound Stan had made when he was shocked. The heat of Stan's body was nice, too, admittedly. And his whiskey breath. The way his chest rose and fell as Kyle began to drift off.

"Boys?"

Kyle startled awake when Jimbo knocked on the door. He hadn't really managed to fall asleep, but he'd been close enough that he felt as if he'd just had water thrown over his head. Stan's arms slid away from him as he sat up, too.

"Dinner ready?" Stan asked. Kyle could smell garlic frying in oil. It actually smelled fresh, not like the jarred kind that came with their rations and reeked like it was rotting.

"Still working on dinner, but there's someone here to see you two," Jimbo said. "A couple of your friends."

"Which friends?" Stan asked, and he frowned at Kyle as if to accuse him of arranging this. Kyle shook his head.

"Gregory, and - aw, hell, I forget the other one's name. Something foreign."

"Christophe?" Kyle said, quietly, to Stan. He was actually glad at the thought of seeing him, since they hadn't gotten a chance to speak at Butters' service. He looked to Stan, not willing to leave him if he wasn't up for company.

"What do they want?" Stan asked.

"I don't know," Jimbo said. "But they've got a bottle of wine for you, they say."

"God, Gregory is the worst," Stan said, but he reached for his chair.

Gregory was still dressed for the funeral in an expensive-looking suit, his hair slicked back with too much gel as usual. Christophe was wearing a baggy military jacket with sleeves long enough to cover his missing hand and most of his prosthetic one. Underneath, he had a shirt with a collar, a loosened tie hanging around it. When Stan wheeled himself over to Gregory to accept the wine, Gregory started to kneel down to his level, then thought better of it.

"It's a good vintage," Gregory said. "I was saving it for, I don't know. I suddenly feel I've been saving it too long. I thought perhaps the four of us could share it."

"Wendy wasn't interested?" Stan said, and Kyle flinched. Christophe smirked. "Sorry," Stan said while Gregory turned pink. "That's - nice of you, thanks. I'll get an opener."

"I'll get it," Kyle said.

"I can manage," Stan said, and he pushed the bottle into Kyle's hands. It was red wine, and the bottle was cold to the touch. Kyle stared at it, wondering if he'd dreamed the conversation they'd had in bed, where everything had felt okay for a few cozy seconds.

"This place is not bad, red," Christophe said, strolling around the room. He had the sharply curious attitude of a robber who was casing the joint.

"It's not my house, it's Stan's," Kyle said.

"But you live here?" Christophe raised his eyebrows when he turned from the pictures on the mantle to look at Kyle.

"I'm helping out," Kyle said. "Like I helped you."

"He's doing really well with the prosthetic," Gregory said.

"Yes, please, talk of me like I am not here," Christophe said, glaring at him. Kyle was increasingly surprised that they'd come together. "He treats me like I am a monkey and he is my trainer," Christophe said to Kyle.

"But it's working out?" Kyle said, nodding to the hand. Christophe shrugged angrily.

"I suppose it is slightly better than a rusting hook," he said.

Stan returned with the opener and a stack of four tumblers, three of which matched. Kyle was afraid this visit would be awkward, like the one with Clyde and Craig had been, and that it would turn Stan off to company even more. There was something about Christophe, however, that dispelled awkwardness.

"I heard that pig Cartman was professing his love for your dead friend," Christophe said after a few gulps of wine. Gregory was swirling his in the glass, sniffing it. "For insurance money or something?"

"I think he was just overwhelmed," Kyle said. "And now he's embarrassed that we all saw him like that."

"What is with you and defending him?" Stan asked. "Cartman doesn't get embarrassed. He has no shame."

"I went to his whore house recently," Christophe said. "Or to his mother's whore house, I suppose. I got a bad feeling and left before fucking anyone."

"Honestly," Gregory said, giving Christophe a look. "We should do something about shutting that place down. I'm not certain all of the employees are of age."

"Take it up with the mayor," Stan said. "I've heard she's a regular customer."

"I heard she sleeps with Liane," Kyle said.

"Who the fuck is Liane, some famous whore?" Christophe asked, and Stan actually laughed.

"That's Cartman's mother's name," Gregory said. "And yes, I'd heard they have some sort of romantic arrangement that's resulted in the mayor turning a blind eye to this illegal activity. Wendy and I were talking about-" He broke off there and looked at Stan, who laughed again, though he sounded less amused this time.

"You can say her name in my presence," he said. "I won't burst into tears or anything."

"We were talking about what could be done," Gregory said. "Wendy is of the opinion that we could encourage the mayor to legalize prostitution, since there's clearly an economic demand for it, and that way there could be some regulation involved, instead of this shady criminal approach. What do you think?" he asked Stan, who was throwing back the last of his wine.

"Uh," Stan said, laughing darkly, and Kyle's throat clenched up when he realized what was coming. "I'm not really the person to ask. Whores are pretty much irrelevant to me. Now."

Christophe said something in French and shook his head. Kyle cast around desperately for a change of subject and came up with nothing. Gregory stood to pour Stan another glass of wine.

"I meant in the political sense," Gregory said. He was blushing again, pretending not to be embarrassed by Stan's unblinking stare.

"To be honest, dude, I couldn't give an eff." Stan drank, and gestured to Christophe with his glass. "How long did it take them to approve your v-chip removal?" he asked.

"Bastards postponed it for months," Christophe said. "You have to be tenacious."

"Because it's so dangerous," Kyle said. He looked to Gregory. "Right?"

"Ah, yes," Gregory said. "How I would love to have this government censorship removed from my skull. It sickens me every day to think of it in there, but the success rate for the surgery is much too low. I hope you're not serious, Stan?"

"His worked," Stan said, flicking his chin toward Christophe.

"I was not afraid to die," Christophe said.

"And I am?" Stan said.

"It's not just death!" Kyle said. "You could end up drooling like an idiot for the rest of your life, dead inside your body-"

"And I'm not?" Stan said.

"Please," Kyle said, his voice breaking. His hand was so tight around his tumbler that he was surprised he hadn't cracked the glass.

"Sorry," Stan said, turning back to Gregory and Christophe. "But I do want the chip out. Every time I slip and get buzzed by this son of a bee I think about how they did this to me, all of this, and now they won't even let me angry about it."

"I suppose you mean the government?" Gregory said.

"Of course he means the fucking government, you cow!" Christophe said, glaring at him. Gregory gave him a look of mild irritation. "And he's right, but I do caution you, my friend, to think if you have anything at all to lose. I did not, when I got the surgery. Or, I felt that I did not," he said, mumbling.

"Now you've seen that it wasn't so?" Gregory said. "Now that you've gotten your prosthetic at last?"

"Don't tell people who've lost things about what they still have," Christophe said. "I only mean for him to think. Not for you to tell him." He looked at Kyle when he said this. Stan waved his hand through the air.

"Forget it," he said, and for a moment Kyle was hopeful, thinking Stan meant that he wasn't serious about wanting the surgery. "Let's talk about something else."

"There is something, specifically, that I came here to talk to you about," Gregory said. Kyle prayed it wasn't Wendy. "It's a sport I've invented."

"Jesus, here he goes," Christophe said.

Gregory and Christophe stayed for dinner, during which Gregory told them the details of this sport that he was so excited about: it was played by a variety of handicapped persons, who were assigned to teams based on their abilities as a group, with players in wheelchairs given certain basketball-like goals while those like Christophe who had the use of their feet would aim for goals on the ground. Kyle found the whole proposal insanely offensive, but Jimbo was quite enamored with the idea and Stan didn't object, just sipped wine until the bottle was empty. For dessert there was a pear, one fat slice for each of them, and then Christophe and Gregory headed back to the Red Cross.

"Can you believe that effing guy?" Kyle asked when Stan emerged from the bathroom after dinner, having drained the wine. "What the heck was that nonsense about making up a sport? He's effing nervy, acting like you'd want to do something like that."

"I could barely follow him," Stan said. "Wine was pretty good, though. I like Christophe, too."

"I don't want you to have your v-chip out," Kyle said. He was standing near the bed, like always, waiting to be invited into it as Stan arranged the blankets over himself. "I'm sorry, but I just. I can't stand by and let you do something like that."

"Well, I guess I am at your mercy," Stan said. He seemed to be in a better mood, or at least too drowsy to fight. "You could tie me up and make me do whatever you want. I can't fight you."

"You know what I mean, Stan. Don't joke."

"I'm actually just stating facts here. Kyle, dude, what are you doing? Come to bed."

"I have to pee," Kyle said, and Stan smiled a little. "What?"

"Nothing," Stan said. "You look like you're about to cry."

"So you're laughing at me? For being afraid you're going to kill yourself over some words you're not allowed to say?"

"You don't how much those words mean when you're really angry," Stan said. "When you're this angry."

"Please, just wait until summer," Kyle said. "At least promise me that. See how you feel then. Like you said, it will be different. Maybe you'll be angrier, maybe not."

"Go pee," Stan said, and he flopped down to the pillow, turning onto his side.

When Kyle returned to the bedroom, hands washed and teeth brushed, Stan appeared to be asleep. Kyle shed his boots, socks, and jeans. The room was icy; he shivered while he built up the fire. Outside, the snow was still coming down. He thought of closing the curtains as usual, but why bother? What would anyone who looked inside see: a mound of blankets, Kyle's hair and Stan's, and they wouldn't be able to assume the things that Kyle had once feared they would. Not if they knew what had happened to Stan.

He left the curtains open and got into bed, hurrying toward the heat of Stan's back. Being the big spoon was dangerous: if they fell asleep this way and didn't wake until morning, Kyle's morning erection would be pressed to the place on Stan's back where paralysis met feeling. At the moment he was soft, and he squeezed up against Stan as close as possible, threading his arm around Stan's side. At least partially awake, Stan put his hand over Kyle's under the blankets.

"My mom would never let me," Stan said.

"Huh? Oh, the operation?"

"Yeah, never. Kyle. What if she dies?"

"She won't," Kyle said, though he had no idea what was going on in New York and the rumors weren't good.

"Do you think about your mom?" Stan asked. Kyle went tense and buried his face between Stan's neck and shoulder.

"It's all her fault," Kyle said. "You, everything. But I don't think about that. I guess I should, like I inherited the guilt or something."

"Shut up," Stan said, but it was a kindness, and he pushed his fingers down through Kyle's, spreading them apart. "No, tell me what you think about. Good memories?"

"I worry about how she died. How they hurt her."

"It wasn't all her fault," Stan said. "Everyone went along with it. Me included. I thought I was going to be a hero, like. I thought I was going to go up there and protect people without having to kill anyone. I really effing thought that, Kyle. Then I'd come home like Clyde, with my medals."

"You had to kill people?"

"Nn, yeah, didn't I tell you? Earlier? Or before? Yeah, three guys. Three guys who'll never walk again, or fuck." They both jerked when Stan's v-chip went off, Kyle squeezing him to try to absorb some of it. "Or swim, or come. I feel as dead as they are sometimes, and I think about how there were three, and I'm just one. Like it's a math problem. You know, the ones where you balance out the equation?"

"They would have killed you," Kyle said. "If you hadn't, you know. If they could have, I mean."

"You sure about that? I don't know. But you don't need to tell me that. I'm too angry to feel guilty yet."

Stan didn't feel angry when he slept in Kyle's arms, but Kyle wasn't sure what angry should feel like, from the outside. Red hot, or trembling with rage, grinding teeth. He realized as he drifted off that Stan must have taken one of his sleeping pills while Kyle was in the bathroom. Soon they would run out, and Kyle knew from his experience of working there that the Red Cross center considered sleeping pills a luxury they couldn't afford. The only place where he'd been able to find them, on special request, was Cartman's booth at the market.

They rode out the storm in a gray, blanketed blur, the snow half-covering the front window by the time Kyle woke up on the first morning. Jimbo and Ned did the work of keeping doorways clear, and Kyle did the cooking, rationing things carefully, just in case. Stan's moods fluctuated between quiet helpfulness in the kitchen and days when he refused to get out of bed except to use the bathroom. Kyle had brought Stan's letters from his house, and he kept them on the second floor, in Stan's old bedroom. Sometimes, when things were bad downstairs, he would sneak up to read them and press his lips to Stan's words, as if the old Stan was in them, lonely and cold while Kyle kept the new Stan warm downstairs.

When the roads were clear enough, Kyle went to the Red Cross center to see what kind of medication he could rustle up to replace the sleeping pills Stan had been given as part of his exit package at the hospital. He felt badly for leaving Stan at the house with Jimbo and Ned, as if Stan was an exotic pet that they wouldn't know how to care for. It was absurd, because Stan could care for himself in most ways, as long as he had his chair within reach. The only thing he hadn't mastered was getting out of the bathtub. He hadn't attempted it since that first day, and had been taking only sponge baths. His hair had started to smell kind of awful. Kyle was working up the nerve to offer to wash it for him.

"Fancy seeing you here," Wendy said when Kyle found her at the center. It was quieter than it had been when Stan was in residence, and colder. Wendy was bundled into a coat as she sorted charts, wearing fingerless gloves. "Is Stan okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," Kyle said. "But he's only got two sleeping pills left. I'm sort of afraid of what will happen when he comes off of them. They knock him right out, and. He needs rest, you know?"

"Everybody needs rest," Wendy said, her eyes still on the charts. "But sleeping pill addiction is no joke. Especially if he's drinking, too. And don't even try to tell me that he's not. Gregory told me that he brought him _wine_."

"Why do you say it like that?" Kyle said, though he knew why she was being this way, and he felt for her. "Anyway, um. Anxiety medication, maybe? Something to calm him down."

"Is he having rages?" Wendy asked, and she finally looked up.

"No," Kyle said. "I mean, I don't think so? He gets mad sometimes. Or, a lot. But he doesn't, like. Throw things." He actually did throw a shoe, once, but only at the wall.

"I'll look through our inventory," Wendy said. "But don't expect much. Things are kinda bleak. There's so much effort being poured into the battle up north, supplies are trickling in at a pathetic pace. I heard they declared a cease fire, though. Or agreed to one, or something."

"No word from Stan's mom, I guess?"

"Not to me," Wendy said. "C'mon, we'll check the supplies. But I think you already know where you'll have to go for anything stronger than aspirin."

"Cartman," Kyle said.

"He's been surprisingly reasonable lately," Wendy said. "Price wise. Maybe Butters' spirit visited him in a dream and convinced him not to be such a disease on humanity."

"Where's Christophe?" Kyle asked as they passed his bed.

"Gregory is fostering him," Wendy said. "His mother is destitute, apparently - Christophe's, I mean. She lives in Denver somewhere. He was only brought here because it was on record as his hometown, but apparently he and his mother have issues, so he doesn't want to find her - it's this whole drama. Gregory is weirdly invested. Here, look. I told you."

They were standing in front of the medicine cabinet. It was alarmingly bare.

"I'll go to the market," Kyle said, glumly. Some part of him had known that he would have to. "I need to get some shampoo, anyway." His theory was that a special bottle, something that smelled and felt nicer than the astringent puck that came with their rations, would inspire Stan to let Kyle help him into a real bath. He could wear swim trunks if he liked, for privacy.

"Hello?" Wendy said, waving her hand in front of Kyle's face. "Are you still there?"

"Sorry," Kyle said. He hadn't been sleeping well himself. He had nightmares, usually that Stan needed him and he couldn't get there in time. Waking up and being able to huddle around Stan protectively was a huge consolation, but getting back to sleep was never easy. "I'm gonna go," Kyle said. It was a long walk to the market. He hadn't wanted to take the truck, in case Jimbo needed it for some Stan-related emergency.

"If you wait for a minute, Clyde can drive you," Wendy said. "His shift ends soon, and I'm sending him there for sugar. I want to make a cake," she said, so seriously that Kyle thought for a moment that she was being sarcastic. "For Stan."

"His birthday's not til October," Kyle said.

"I know that," Wendy said, looking like she wanted to kill him. "It's not a birthday cake, it's a yellow cake with chocolate frosting. Ideally, I mean, if I can get the cocoa. Clyde thinks his mom has some."

"That is Stan's favorite cake," Kyle said, and he was embarrassed by how threatened he felt. What if the cake was all it took to win Stan over? What if he left Kyle in favor of being 'fostered' by Wendy as soon as the chocolate frosting touched his tongue?

"You look ill," Wendy said, and she touched Kyle's forehead. "Do you want some of that flu tea?"

"That stuff doesn't really work," Kyle said.

"I know, but it's comforting, isn't it? Some of the patients think so, anyway. Here's Clyde," she said, and she waved him over.

The sun was already fading behind the clouds as Kyle and Clyde made their way out to his truck, and Kyle was glad that he didn't have to walk, though being alone with Clyde made him feel uneasy. They had nothing in common.

"I heard there's a cease fire in New York?" Kyle said as Clyde pulled out onto the road, which was still a bit treacherous after all the recent snow.

"I'd heard that, too," Clyde said. "Damn if I can get a radio signal, though. Remember TV? Remember video games? Jesus."

Kyle had to stop himself from bragging that Ike had somehow rigged that video game up at their house not long ago, in the attic. He'd hidden it after Ike left, and now he wondered if he could get it to work for Stan.

"Where's Craig?" Kyle asked, because the two of them seemed inseparable since Clyde's return.

"Working," Clyde said. "If you're going to Cartman's booth, you'll see him. I'm going to drive him home after his shift. I'll drop you off, too."

"Thanks," Kyle said. "Craig's, uh. Doing okay?"

"Oh, sure," Clyde said. "He showed me his eye socket. Have you seen it?"

"No," Kyle said, recoiling.

"It's intense," Clyde said. Kyle wanted to pummel him. He was still a big, dumb kid, even after what he'd been through, all that time alone in the occupied wilderness. Oafish optimists like Clyde were built for war; he seemed as untouched mentally as he was physically. "How's Stan holding up?" he asked.

"Amazingly," Kyle said, feeling defensive. "Considering."

"Stan's such a great guy," Clyde said. Kyle turned toward the window and rolled his eyes.

The market was busy, crowded with people who worked during the day and could afford a few luxury items, most of them just coming off shift. Kyle hadn't been to the market since Stan had moved home, and it was nice to be among a crowd, jostling to see the contents of each booth. He spent more than he'd intended to as he made his way toward Cartman's booth at the back, possibly out of a desire to avoid asking Cartman for anything for as long as possible. Maybe he could deal with Craig, or Ruby, whose stoicism made her brother seem effusive. Kyle appreciated that in a cashier.

Cartman's booth was bustling, always the busiest in the market. He had a whole produce section now, and he seemed to have bought the butcher out. Ruby was manning the meat station, hacking up a tenderloin for Wendy's mother. The more mundane items were in the middle of the shop: candles, toothpaste, shoelaces. Kyle noticed two additional security guards, guys who he still thought of as 'sixth graders' because of his run-ins with them during elementary school. He selected a bottle of moisturizing shampoo that smelled good when he flicked the lid open to take a sniff. Like most of the cosmetics available on the black market, it was half empty, but it was a big bottle and the price was fair. Kyle brought it to the back, where Cartman doled out the most lucrative items from behind a high counter: cigarettes, alcohol, pornography and prescription pills.

"Well, well, look who's showing his face," Cartman said when Kyle approached, pretending to browse the items that were under glass at the main counter. It was mostly tacky jewelry and knives. Kyle could feel Cartman's eyes on him. "Where have you been?" Cartman asked when Kyle looked up. "I was afraid you and Marsh had suicide-pacted each other or something."

"That's not - what does that even mean?" Kyle glared at him. Cartman was smirking, in his element. It was cold in the market, but Cartman wore no jacket, just a maroon shirt with a collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "I'm interested in your prescription selection," Kyle said, before Cartman could come up with his next smart ass remark. "Sleeping pills, ideally."

"Ah, I see," Cartman said, and he tapped his chin with his finger. "Drugging Marsh so you can fondle his limp dick? Interesting choice, Kyle, I like it."

Kyle turned away, and he'd taken two steps before he had the presence of mind to remember that Cartman was the only person in town who might have what he needed. It was so unfair; it seemed as if it has always been this way, ever since they were kids. Cartman was always able to hold something over him.

"That's right, come crawling back," Cartman said when Kyle returned to the counter. "Oh, Kyle. You don't look well. Are you eating? Here, have one of these." He took a packet of beef jerky sticks from his pocket. They smelled delicious. Kyle imagined they were disgustingly warm, from being pressed to Cartman's overlarge thigh.

"No," Kyle said. "Do you have sleeping pills or not? I don't want your food, and I don't want any conversation. I know you want to torture me as much as possible - fine. Do it, and then take my money."

"I can hardly torture you as much as possible in public," Cartman said. "So, we'll save that for another time. Sleeping pills, hmm. I think I might have something."

He opened a big drawer behind the counter, and when he did Kyle recognized where the counter itself had come from: the old pharmacy, which had shut down during the third year of the war. He wondered if Cartman had bought the thing from the previous owner or just smashed the windows and stolen it.

"Let's see," Cartman said, rifling through pill bottles. "Painkillers, allergy medicine, erectile dysfunction drugs-" He looked up. "Don't need those for Marsh, do you? Or maybe it's worth a shot?" He held them up and gave them a shake. Kyle was boiling inside his coat, his fingers flexing into fists, nails cutting into his palm. He tried to keep his gaze impassive, and knew he was failing. "No?" Cartman said, his expression mockingly mild. "Alright, then. Ah, here we are." He held up another bottle. "Sleeping pills, the finest in the land. Let's see, what can I let these babies go for? I'd say around, hmm. Nine hundred seems fair."

"Nine hundred dollars?" Kyle said. "Very funny. What are you really charging for them?"

"These are the only sleeping pills I've been able to get my hands on for six months," Cartman said. "They're nine hundred, Kyle. So do you want them or not?"

"You know I can't afford that," Kyle said. He was beginning to wonder why he'd even bothered. It was mostly his fear that Stan wouldn't want to be held if he wasn't out like a light after swallowing a pill. Selfish, sick, and maybe Cartman's taunting was what Kyle deserved.

"Sadly, I can't lower my price on these," Cartman said, putting them away with a fake sigh of regret. "However." He lifted his eyes to Kyle's again. "I might be willing to make - a trade."

"For what?" Kyle asked, trying to sound bored by this. His heart was pounding. Cartman's gaze was like red ants crawling across his skin, under his clothes, little bites stinging him everywhere.

"For my cock down your throat," Cartman said, predictably. Kyle turned away, so blind with anger that he crashed right into Craig.

"Jesus," Craig said, his remaining eye going wide. "What's wrong?"

"Your business partner is a sick sack of shit," Kyle said. He heard Cartman laugh when his v-chip fired. "And I'm just, I'm. Leaving, or. Clyde's driving us both home. C'mon, let's go."

"Not so fast, Kyle," Cartman said, and when Kyle turned to snarl at him he remembered the shampoo bottle.

"I'll pay Craig," Kyle said. He pushed the bottle into Craig's hands and dug a ten dollar bill out of his pocket.

"Going to massage that into Stan's pubes or something?" Cartman asked, and Kyle heard a hint of desperation in his voice. He decided this was, therefore, a perfect time to land a direct hit.

"You know," Kyle said, turning to Cartman again. "Butters would be heartbroken if he knew what you'd turned into. If he'd even had the ability to imagine you could sink low enough to make fun of Stan's injuries. Butters was willing to die for his friends in battle," Kyle said, his voice gaining strength as he watched Cartman's face fall and then harden. "He was a real man. You're just a coward hiding behind a counter. Making money off of misfortune. There's no hell deep enough for you."

"Security!" Cartman shouted. His face was turning red. "Security!"

"Hey, back off," Craig said, and he waved the guards away when they came. "He paid for the shampoo, let him go. And I'd better not hear you talk garbage about Stan while I'm around, you a-hole. Or any veterans."

"You watch your effing mouth, Craig!" Cartman said, jabbing a finger in Craig's direction. "You'd be nothing without me and you know it."

"Yeah, yeah," Craig said, pulling Kyle away. "Go home to your whorehouse, fat boy, the market's closing."

"Aren't you worried he'll cut you out?" Kyle asked as they walked away. Craig shrugged.

"I don't worry about much these days," he said. "Where's Clyde?"

"Around here somewhere," Kyle said. "He went straight for the fortune teller's tent when we got here."

"Of course he did," Craig said with a snort, but he was smiling a little.

They found Clyde at the bakery, buying sugar for Wendy. He'd also bought a few thin madeleine cookies, and he pressed one into Craig's palm. Craig shook his head, his smile widening.

"I asked the psychic about Bebe," Clyde said. "She says that Bebe's doing great things, and that it won't be long til she's back."

"That old crone is full of it," Craig said. "Don't waste your money on her. Or on this junk," he said, and he gave the cookie back.

"What's with him?" Clyde asked as Craig hoofed it toward the exit, walking more stiffly than usual.

"Are you really so dense?" Kyle asked. Saying so made him wonder if Stan knew everything. He must, even if he'd buried it for the sake of their friendship.

"Huh?" Clyde said, following Kyle toward the door.

"Nothing," Kyle said. "Craig had a disagreement with Cartman."

"Oh, dang, really?" Clyde said. "I hope those two can get along. Craig was the one who convinced Cartman to lower his prices, to give people a little help. It was my idea, though, and you know what I told him? I said, tell Cartman that Butters would have wanted that. I figured it was a long shot, but hey. Prices went down."

"Not on everything," Kyle said, feeling like he might retch, Cartman's proposed 'trade' sitting heavy on his shoulders. He couldn't shake the feeling that someday Cartman would have something he couldn't do without, and that his price would be the same, or worse.

After the company that he'd suffered for the last few hours, Kyle was bouncing in the backseat of Clyde's truck, eager to get home to Stan. He thanked Clyde for the ride and Craig for the rescue at the market.

"Don't provoke him by showing up," Craig said. "If you want things, just give me the money. I'll get them for you, wholesale price."

"Jesus, that would be great," Kyle said. He was standing in Stan's driveway, Clyde's truck emitting exhaust into the frosty air while Craig spoke, his window rolled down. "You'd really do that for me?" Kyle said, stunned.

"It's more for Stan," Craig said. "I bet I can guess what Cartman was saying about him. Knowing Cartman. And, I just. I can't imagine," he said, looking toward the den window. The curtains were closed today.

"Thanks," Kyle said, a little irritated by Craig's overly specific sympathy.

Inside, the house smelled like boiling potatoes and celery, which was the base for Jimbo's chicken and dumplings. It was one of five recipes he made on a regular rotation, if they could get the meat for each of them. This was Kyle's least favorite, because Jimbo's soggy dumplings were nowhere as good as Sheila's had been.

Kyle was glad to find Stan in the kitchen and in good spirits, laughing with Jimbo and holding a beer, his chair pushed up to the table. There were two empty beer bottles sitting on the table, and a bowl of peanuts that Jimbo was cracking and eating, scattering bits of shell everywhere.

"Hey, finally!" Stan said, beaming at Kyle in a way that lifted him ceiling-ward before he realized that Stan was probably a little drunk, or a lot drunk. "We were worried about you."

"I'm fine," Kyle said, wanting to hug Stan's shoulders. He never touched Stan in view of Jimbo or Ned, though - or maybe because - he was beginning to suspect that those two humped each other nightly on the second floor. "I got something for you," Kyle said, jostling his shoulder bag. The shampoo was inside, along with the madeleine that Craig hadn't wanted.

"Yeah?" Stan said. "Well, Jesus, today's my lucky day. Look." He lifted his bottle. "Beer! Jimbo got it for me."

"Traded a couple of old hats," Jimbo said, grinning. He was rosy-cheeked, clearly thrilled that Stan liked his gift. "My nephew deserves something special once in a while," he said.

"So what'd you get?" Stan asked Kyle, who shook his head.

"It's a surprise," he said. "I'll show you in the bed- in the den, I mean."

"Uh oh!" Jimbo said. "Kyle's gone wild."

Stan laughed hard, and Kyle went into the den, blushing. He shut the door behind him, and was working on the fire when Stan opened the door and rolled inside.

"Hey," he said. "Kyle, always working. Come have a beer."

"I'm not always working," Kyle said. He felt like he spent half his time sleeping, keeping Stan company in the bed. "And, no, you should have the beers. Jimbo got them for you. I don't like beer, anyway."

"I closed the door," Stan said.

"I can see that."

"So? What's this secret thing you bought?"

"Well," Kyle said, and he stood, sighing. "First off, and I wasn't sure I would tell you this, but. I tried to get you some more sleeping pills, and I couldn't."

"What - oh." Stan nodded. "I'm almost out. Yeah, I'll try sleeping without them. Save those last two for a really bad night, or whatever. Hey, and don't. You don't have to buy me things."

"This is for both of us," Kyle said, going for the bag. He took out the madeleine first, carefully wrapped in a tissue that had absorbed some grease from the buttery cookie. Stan smiled when Kyle showed him what was inside the tissue.

"You didn't want Jimbo to know you only got one for me?" Stan said. "Kyle, he wouldn't care."

"I didn't get this for anyone," Kyle said, and he broke it in two pieces, offering half to Stan. "Clyde bought it for Craig, and Craig rejected it." He popped the other half into his mouth.

"Craig's weird," Stan said, chewing. "This is good, thanks. What, there's more?" he said when Kyle went to his bag.

"Yep," Kyle said. He got out the shampoo and showed it to Stan.

"Hmm," Stan said. "Moisture locking."

"It smells good, see?"

He popped the top off, and something about Stan sniffing the bottle was so alarmingly erotic that he had to turn away, taking the bottle with him.

"I know I'm gross," Stan said.

"You're not. Well, your hair is getting a little greasy. I thought, if it's okay, if you want. I could make you a bath, help you in, help you out." He kept his back to Stan, pretending to arrange things in his bag, afraid to witness a change in Stan's good mood. "If you want."

"Fine," Stan said. "Actually, yeah. Let's do it now. Before dinner."

Kyle tried not to show his surprise. He nodded and went for the bathroom, turned on the faucet full blast and plugged the tub when the water was hot. Stan was in the doorway, pulling off his shirt. Kyle had gotten accustomed to helping him with his pants, and he was kneeling in front of Stan before he really thought about it, untying the drawstring on his sweatpants. He noticed that Stan breath had quickened, and looked up with cautious wonder when Stan touched his hair.

"You could get in with me," Stan said.

"Ha." Kyle assumed he was joking and stood to lift Stan up a little with one arm, clumsily shoving his pants down with the other. He gulped when his palm slid over the bare flesh of Stan's ass. "You're not wearing anything," he said, meaning underwear.

"I figured, why bother?" Stan said when Kyle set him down in the chair again, stripping the pants off and trying not to look up. "It's not like I can feel the difference, and it's just another piece of laundry to wash."

"Okay," Kyle said. "Makes sense. Want me to get you some swim trunks?" He was peeling off Stan's socks, his face burning. He was close enough to feel the heat between Stan's legs, or maybe it was more like a secret smell.

"Swim trunks?" Stan laughed. "No, dude, just. You can look at it, like. It won't bite, it's not a snake. It's not much of anything anymore, I guess, so. Just look, if you want to."

Kyle's eyes watered with humiliation, but only a little, not enough for Stan to notice. He stood and moved back before looking between Stan's legs. Having grown up with red ones, he'd always found dark pubes a little alarming at first. He must have glimpsed Stan's at some point when they were younger, but he felt as if he'd never seen this before: a soft, uncircumcized cock. Even the color of the foreskin was soft, pink against the pale insides of Stan's thighs.

"Okay, you don't have to stare," Stan said, laughing, and he was blushing hard when Kyle looked up.

"Sorry," Kyle said. His eyes burned again, but again there was no threat of real tears.

"Just help me into the tub," Stan said, some of the new bitterness in his voice returning. There was only an edge of it, and Kyle was glad to bring him to the tub, though this would be another moment of intense awkwardness. He wheeled Stan over and took his legs while Stan braced himself on the handle bar and the edge of the tub. Touching Stan's legs always felt slightly wrong, like piercing the veil of death. Once he was in, Kyle tested the water and adjusted it, turning the temperature down a little.

"Too hot?" he said, and Stan shook his head. His face was still pink, but not blazing now.

"I wouldn't want it to be my mom, really," he said. "And not Wendy, never her, never Jimbo. Only you, you're the only one I'd want - like this. And it's so effing much to ask, I know it's a lot-"

"I like it," Kyle said, or admitted. He was sweating, the steam from the water making him feel overheated. "I mean, I hate that you're. But if you are, or since you are. I'm glad it's me."

"Will you do the soap?" Stan asked, and he leaned back to rest his head on the rim of the tub. It wasn't an especially big one; Kyle had bent Stan's knees so he would fit.

"Do the soap?" Kyle said. He'd left the shampoo in the bedroom. His hands were shaking.

"Yeah," Stan said. "I don't like how, uh. After I get down to a certain point, I can't feel it. I hate that, so. Could you just do it?"

"Yeah, of course," Kyle said, still not entirely sure what he was agreeing to. He got the soap, thinking of the shampoo, weirdly worried that he would have to leave Stan in here alone when he went to fetch it, as if Stan would slip under and drown. He washed Stan's left knee first, feeling absurd. Stan closed his eyes and took deep, steam-filled breaths, sighing. He seemed okay.

"You can do between the legs," Stan said, eyes still closed. "I won't look. Or feel it, so. Don't worry."

"I wasn't worried," Kyle said. He pulled Stan's knees apart, so that his thighs were resting against opposite sides of the tub. Kyle was hard, but only a little, too overwhelmed and confused to really become aroused. He washed between Stan's legs as quickly as possible, scrubbing soap into the coarse hair and thinking of what Cartman had said about the shampoo.

"Did you see Cartman at the market?" Stan asked, as if Kyle had said his name. Kyle glanced up at him; Stan's eyes were still closed, his head tipped back. His Adam's apple looked very obvious, shining with moisture from the water, or from the steam. Ready to be licked.

"Um, yeah," Kyle said, shaking himself. He moved up to Stan's stomach with the soap, and he could feel it when he touched the first spots where Stan still had sensation, Stan's stomach muscles twitching under his fingers. "Yeah, he was there. Offering me beef jerky."

"Gross."

"Yeah, I didn't eat it. I mean, of course I didn't. I wouldn't eat from that idiot's hand if I was starving." He thought of how he'd felt earlier, that Cartman would someday have something that he couldn't refuse, and wouldn't give it freely. "Clyde went to that fortune teller," Kyle said, tired of thinking about Cartman.

"Fortune teller?" Stan peeked at him and smiled. "What?"

"Oh - that's right, she set up after you'd already left! Yeah, she's this old lady, nobody knows where she came from. People actually go, you know, she does a pretty good business, and at no expense to her, except for her time. I think it's kind of cruel. She told Clyde that Bebe will be home soon."

"I had a dream about Bebe last night," Stan said, and Kyle was jealous. "I can't remember - she was in this movie, or something? But she was real into that stuff, actually. Omens, and everything. We'd see a fox and she'd get all excited. Owls were bad news."

"Did the omens prove to be, uh, accurate?" Kyle was washing Stan's chest now, wanting to linger on his nipples.

"I don't know," Stan said. "I don't think so. If she comes back like Butters did, or in a body bag, I don't know what I'll do. Shit, that's a lie. I'll do nothing. Exactly what I did for Butters."

"You were there when he died," Kyle said. "And you were a good friend to him in life, you didn't do nothing."

"I wasn't that good of a friend," Stan said.

"You were so. You told me in your letters, you protected him in the showers."

"Oh, yeah. I remember trying to be funny, saying I had to see his dick, how much I hated it."

Kyle was washing Stan's arms, and he could feel Stan looking at him expectantly as his soapy fingers slid into the hollow of Stan's throat. He felt Stan swallow.

"Want me to do your hair?" Kyle asked. Stan nodded, slowly, and Kyle's cock responded with a jolting throb. Stan might see his erection when he stood. No, he definitely would. Kyle turned away before rising, his legs shaking.

When he reentered, he held a towel and the shampoo over his crotch, certainly for obvious reasons. Stan's cock was sort of bobbing in the water, and Kyle's eyes kept sneaking to it, now that he'd been given permission. It didn't seem lifeless at all, and Kyle hated himself for wanting it in his mouth, even soft like that, but not if Stan couldn't feel it.

"Oh, yeah," Kyle said when Stan leaned forward, showing Kyle his back. "I forgot."

"It's really nice," Stan said while Kyle rubbed soap in circles on his back, moving up to squeeze his shoulders. "Um, that you're doing this. Thank you."

"It's nice that you're letting me," Kyle said. He would have to jerk off before dinner, somehow, though he hated the idea of ever coming again, if Stan couldn't.

He washed Stan's hair, trying to be gentle yet efficient. Though it was something he had actually fantasized about in the past - his fingers massaging Stan's scalp, Stan's eyes sliding shut in seeming pleasure - he couldn't enjoy it, already worried about getting Stan out of the tub. Stan was heavy; Kyle cursed himself for not having begun a weight-lifting routine as soon as he'd learned of Stan's condition. For weeks he'd been too shocked to envision lifting Stan out of anything, and at no point had he thought that one of those things might be a bath tub.

Kyle passed Stan a towel so he could dry his hair and upper body before Kyle helped him out. He could see that Stan was feeling awkward, too, and there was no hiding his erection now. Stan was kind enough not to mention it or stare. He could have berated Kyle for it; Kyle knew he deserved no less.

"Put that on the seat," Stan said, passing the towel to Kyle, who folded it and did as he asked. He had a robe at the ready, hanging on the back of the chair. Getting Stan out of the tub was a clumsy process that got water everywhere, and as soon as he was in the chair Kyle knelt down in a puddle and dried his legs. Stan pulled the robe over himself and touched Kyle's hair again.

"I'm sorry," Kyle said, trying to apologize for the erection, and also for everything, just everything. Stan stroked his hair and said nothing.

Kyle felt calm at dinner, glad to have Jimbo's incessant talking to keep everyone involved in the conversation. Stan was talkative, too, complaining that he'd lost the little camera someone had traded him during his campaign.

"I had all these great pictures," he said. "Of wild turkeys, and these weird red mushroom things that everybody called zombie brains, and Butters. Damn, I wish I had all those pictures of Butters."

"We'll get you a new camera," Jimbo said, and Kyle went tense, afraid that Stan would complain that he had nothing to take pictures of, now. Stan just shrugged and forked a dumpling into his mouth.

"I might have an old one," Ned said. "No film, though."

"I could tell Craig to look for film at the market," Kyle said. "He claims he'll start selling to me wholesale. And that he'll deliver."

"That's good," Stan said. "Just don't let Cartman find out about it. He'll put a stop to it."

"Now why would he do that?" Jimbo asked. "To try to get more money out of you?"

"That, and to force Kyle to show up at his booth." Stan looked up from his plate. "Cartman's obsessed with Kyle."

"No," Kyle said. "C'mon."

"He always has been," Stan said. He looked across the table, at Jimbo and Ned. "If you ever see him hanging around, and I mean anywhere near the house, tell me about it. I'll sick every vet I know on him."

"Sometimes a guy needs a beat down," Jimbo said, nodding.

"Don't start trouble," Kyle muttered, though he did like the idea of Cartman taking a humbling beating.

After dinner, Kyle helped with the dishes, feeling more exhausted than he normally did after the long walk to the Red Cross center and the stress of the market. His hands were burning from the cold water once he'd finished. They normally reserved their limited hot water supply for quick showers.

He went into the bedroom, wondering if he should have brought a brandy to help Stan sleep. He was awake, in bed, staring at the fire.

"You worry too much about Cartman," Kyle said as he undressed. "He's just a petty bully."

"Hm. What he did to you wasn't petty, to me."

"Let's not get into it all over again," Kyle said, stopping himself from reminding Stan that he'd been drunk, and that he would never let his guard down like that again, not outside of the house. He pulled on the fleece sweatshirt that he slept in and stepped out of his pants, hurrying into the blankets.

"I just get a bad feeling, sometimes," Stan said, pulling Kyle to him. He smelled a little doughy from all the dumplings he'd consumed, and his hair was still damp. "When you're away from me," Stan said. He was speaking so softly that Kyle expected to be kissed, dazed by this development. Stan didn't kiss him, but he tucked Kyle to his chest under the blankets.

"It's because of when we were kids," Kyle said. He moved his leg against Stan's, and swallowed down his sadness when he thought about how Stan couldn't feel it. "When that other kid beat me up, because of my mom. That's why you're all, like. Paranoid that I'm going to get clobbered."

"Maybe," Stan said. He was quiet for a while, breathing into Kyle's hair. "I got attached to you," he said. "Somehow."

"You think?" Kyle said, and he wiggled his arm under Stan's, clutching at his back.

"It's the great mystery of my life," Stan said. He'd had two more beers with dinner. Kyle felt his whole body lift with the deep breath that Stan took, and lower when Stan exhaled.

"The great mystery of your life?" Kyle said, very quietly, but it had taken him too long to work up the nerve to question that statement. Stan was asleep.

Kyle didn't sleep well, and neither did Stan. He woke with nightmares four times, and it took Kyle longer to calm him each time. He offered to get Stan a pill, but Stan shook his head. Kyle kept adding logs to the fire, until the room was fairly well lit from the blaze and they were both overly warm under the blankets, but Stan kept shaking.

"Wendy wants to bring you a cake," Kyle said at dawn, when they'd given up on going back to sleep and were just lying with their foreheads pressed together, sighing. "Yellow cake," Kyle said. "Chocolate icing."

"I'm doing this for her," Stan said. "Even if we just ate cake together, it would be like starting all over again."

"I don't know," Kyle said. He had no idea why he was encouraging Stan to see Wendy, when that was the last thing he wanted. He cared about Wendy a great deal, but he'd always jealously doubted her ability to make Stan happy.

"It's a little bit for me, too," Stan said. "I don't want to face her like this. Even seeing those guys, Clyde and Gregory, it's not easy." He pressed his nose to Kyle's cheek. "I don't know what it is about you, why it doesn't seem to count. Or counts more, or. It's like you're part of me, like-" He pushed his hand up under Kyle's shirt, pressing his palm to Kyle's heartbeat. "Like this is mine, too. All this. You."

"It is," Kyle said. He was probably saying too much, but what the hell was Stan saying? "I mean, I am."

"Do you feel that way about me, too?" Stan said, his thumb moving on Kyle's skin, over his heart. "Like this happened to you, too, because we almost, like. Share a body, or something?"

"I guess," Kyle said, not sure what Stan wanted to hear. Kyle had never felt like he had any shared ownership of Stan's body. Its separateness was what made Kyle want him so much.

"Take this off?" Stan said, reaching down for the hem of Kyle's sweatshirt. Kyle did without hesitation, a kind of fog rolling in to clog his thought process. He had no expectation of what would happen next, but it felt good to submit to Stan's mysterious agenda, and he offered no resistance when Stan rolled him onto his back. Stan sat up on his elbow and touched Kyle's chest, pausing to toy with his nipples. Under the blankets, Kyle spread his legs to accommodate his erection. "You cold?" Stan asked.

"Mhmm?" Kyle could barely speak, or maybe he was afraid to add a dialogue to this. "No, not cold."

"They're stiff, though," Stan said, pinching Kyle's left nipple. Kyle sighed and closed his eyes, turning his head to press his face to Stan's arm.

"I'm not cold," he said.

"I wish I could just ride on your shoulders," Stan said. He abandoned the nipples and stroked his fingers over Kyle's ribs. "No, I don't. I wish you could ride on mine."

"I just want to stay here forever," Kyle said, mumbling. He twitched his hips a bit and withheld a moan. Maybe this was still non-sexual for Stan.

"What, in the bed?" Stan asked.

"Mn, yeah. Like this, I mean. With you. Connected."

Stan had no response, and Kyle was glad. He wanted to be quiet, and to keep his eyes closed, to melt into nothing but the feeling of Stan touching him like this, possessively, assessing his property. Kyle twitched when Stan tickled his fingers around his belly button. He'd pushed the blankets down to Kyle's hips, but Kyle still didn't feel cold.

"You're hard?" Stan said, like he really needed to ask. Kyle's cock was tenting the blankets along with his boxer shorts. He nodded, heart pounding. Stan's hand was resting softly on his stomach, just above the elastic waistband of his boxers.

"Sorry," Kyle said.

"Yeah," Stan said. He moved his hand down and poked one finger into the slit of Kyle's boxers. Kyle's whole body jerked when Stan stroked his dick with his fingertip. "Can I?" Stan asked. He sounded oddly untroubled.

"God," Kyle said, nodding. "Yeah." Eyes still closed, he reached down to shove his boxers off. They got kicked under the blankets somewhere, and Kyle spread his legs, afraid to look, shivering with anticipation.

"Dude, you're so-" Stan said, and then his hand was wrapped around Kyle's cock, loosely, maybe nervously, but so warm. Kyle moaned and let his thighs inch apart more widely. He was afraid to open his eyes. "I never knew you could be like this," Stan said, whispering. He was touching Kyle in experimental swipes of his fingers, never venturing as low as his balls.

"Like - what?" Kyle said. If Stan kissed him he would blow apart, they both would, the world would end beautifully.

"All twitchy and trembling and shit," Stan said. He grunted and squeezed Kyle's cock when his v-chip fired. Kyle whimpered. "Are you okay?" Stan asked.

"Yes," Kyle said, because Stan was still holding his cock. He twitched his hips a little, trying to fuck Stan's palm, feeling guilty about it but unable to stop.

"You want to come?" Stan said. He sounded surprised. Kyle whined, nodding. "Okay," Stan said, and he rubbed his thumb through the wet tip, spreading pre-come. "Yeah, alright. I want to see it, anyway."

"Stan," Kyle said. He felt like pure energy, barely contained, everything throbbing. He had the stupid, burning urge to reach down and rub his balls while Stan pumped him too slowly, and he didn't dare.

"Man, it's crazy how normal this feels," Stan said. "Like I'm giving you a back rub or something. You know?"

"Nh." Kyle didn't feel normal at all, but he was too close to argue, his hips working more desperately now.

"Well," Stan said. "I guess it's different for you."

He pumped Kyle hard, once, twice, and Kyle came with a shout that would surely be heard on the second floor. He felt like he'd been waiting to explode since the first night he'd spent with Stan under the blankets, and it was overwhelming, receding waves of relief still washing over him as his come went cold on his stomach. He cracked his eyes open, breathing hard, afraid to see Stan's face. Stan was studying him mildly, unsmiling.

"Here," Stan said, and he pressed his thumb to Kyle's bottom lip. Kyle licked his come off of it, hating the taste, wanting to be kissed. The cold in the room seemed to swoop over him like a flock of birds.

"Stan," Kyle said, uncertainly. Stan sat up, sighing, then reached over the side of the bed to pick up a damp towel from the floor. He wiped his hand, then Kyle's belly.

"I can't believe you just let me do that," Stan said. His voice was different, hard, hiding all the parts of him that Kyle knew. Kyle didn't say anything, his mind still cloudy and his whole conception of the world as he'd known it blanked over by this, its possibilities and limitations. He didn't even move to get warm, just concentrated on how proud he was of himself for not crying, and how disgusted he was about everything else.

Stan slid into his chair and went into the bathroom. Behind the closed door, he turned the water at the sink on full blast, so that Kyle wouldn't know if he was pissing or just sitting in there seeing if he needed to. This was his habit. After the water turned off, he flushed. The water bill, which arrived irregularly, would be astronomical. Kyle stared at the ceiling and thought about this, the cold seeping into him until he was shuddering from it.

"You never wash your hands," Kyle said when Stan returned to the room.

"What are you doing?" Stan said. "You're shivering. Kyle, fuck." He growled and punched the arm of his chair, but that would be about the v-chip, not Kyle's behavior, or at least not entirely. "Don't freak out. I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that. It was like sleepwalking. I won't touch you like that again."

"Fine," Kyle said. He sat up, and when he met Stan's eyes he saw that they both knew it was not a promise Stan would keep. Kyle was glad, and terrified. He pulled the blankets up and draped them over his shoulders.

"You look like a different guy when you're naked," Stan said. Kyle was going to ask him what he meant by that, but then he realized that he knew, exactly.

"So do you," Kyle said. "With your leg hair, and everything."

Stan smiled. Kyle couldn't quite manage one.

They spent the afternoon in separate parts of the house. Stan had asked Ned to teach him how to make bread, so that was going on in the kitchen. Kyle was skeptical about Ned's bread-baking abilities, but Stan had somehow gotten the idea that he knew what he was doing. Kyle was upstairs, sorting things into piles: what he knew they couldn't bring to market, what he knew they could, and things he would have to ask Stan about later. It was cold on the second floor, and the quiet just seemed quieter when he heard noises from downstairs, Stan's voice and the bang of the oven. He startled when Jimbo was suddenly walking up behind him.

"You okay, buddy?" Jimbo asked.

"Yeah," Kyle said. He was in Stan's childhood bedroom, holding a plastic lizard that he had been contemplating for half an hour: did Stan care about this toy when they were kids, enough to want to keep it now? Kyle felt he should remember, or just know. "We're low on money," Kyle said. "We've got to sell some of this stuff, or trade it for staples."

"Sure, sure," Jimbo said. He went to sit on Stan's old twin bed. "You really okay, though?" He must have heard the shout that morning, but would he be able to piece together the cause for it?

"I don't know," Kyle said. "I thought I was. Maybe I'm not."

"When Ned lost his arm." Jimbo shook his head as if recalling widespread famine. "That was real hard."

"Well," Kyle said. "I'm sure. But he had the other one."

"Fair enough," Jimbo said. "He felt different, though. I heard this quote once. Shit, let's see if I can remember it right - it's easy to accept other people's baggage if you don't have to bring it home with you."

"Uh-huh." Kyle began to wonder if Stan had sent Jimbo up to check on him.

"We brought it home, though, me and you," Jimbo said. "Maybe not like they did, but we're carrying it, sometimes."

"The whole war is my baggage," Kyle said, and he wanted to vomit when he heard his self-pity out loud. "My mother's, I mean. And she's gone. Dad and Ike, too. It's just me now, with this boulder of gore and grief and disappointment on my shoulders. The last accursed Broflovski."

"Nobody thinks that way, Kyle," Jimbo said.

"It's like I'm not even allowed to be angry about it," Kyle said. He dropped the lizard and groaned when he realized he was quoting Stan. "God, no, forget it. I'm overtired. He ran out of pills, so. We barely slept."

"That's a long battle after war," Jimbo said. "Learning how to sleep again. You're good not to leave him alone with it. You're a good man, Kyle."

That word seemed ridiculous, applied to him, but he was over eighteen. In just a few more months he would be nineteen. Spring was coming; it was hard to believe.

Wendy showed up with the cake just before dinner. Stan refused to leave the den to greet her, so Kyle went in his place. She looked shaken as she held the cake with both hands. It was on a normal china plate, a delicate film of saran wrap pressed down over the chocolate icing.

"Wow," Kyle said. "Smells really good."

"He won't come out?" Wendy said.

"He's kind of in a weird place right now."

Wendy looked away from him as if she had to gather herself or risk throwing the whole cake in his face. She thrust it toward him in a way that made him flinch.

"Take it," she said. "Just take it."

"He'll love it," Kyle said, easing it from her hands.

"I wasn't in love with his cock," Wendy said, whispering this sharply. "Only a man would think this way. He doesn't understand. If he would just _talk_ to me."

"It's just too soon," Kyle said.

"I know," she said. "Patience is not a strength of mine. Baking, either. My mom helped a lot. I hope it will taste alright." Her voice pinched up and she hurried for the door. Kyle started to shout that Jimbo could give her a ride home, but he could see Gregory's car parked down the street, idling. She'd known that Stan wouldn't see her, and she'd brought the cake anyway.

"I can't eat that," Stan said when Kyle brought the cake into the den to try to show it to him. Stan was curled up in the bed, his arm folded over his face. "I saw her, through the window. Driving off with Gregory. That's good."

"She still loves you," Kyle said. He felt numb, and very far away from Stan now, or at least from this Stan. After spending hours upstairs with his old things, he felt closer to the Stan he'd lost, his boyhood friend, the one who had cried when Randy released the squirrel Stan had been keeping in his closet. Kyle had called that thing Nutcase, because he was afraid of its manic energy, and Stan had insisted that its proper name was Fry, since they'd found it eating some french fries near a garbage can. They'd been six years old, then, and only two years away from the war.

"Leave me alone," Stan said when Kyle lingered with the cake, feeling like an idiot. It was as if he'd made the thing himself, in hopes of winning his own Stan back, the old one.

Kyle took the cake into the kitchen and set it on the table. The house was quiet; Jimbo had gone to the market with some of the things Kyle had set aside to sell. Ned was somewhere upstairs, doing whatever it was he did all day. Kyle removed the saran wrap carefully, and laid it flat on the table so he could reuse it when he put the cake away. Unless he ate the whole thing, which was a possibility. He got himself a fork.

The cake was good, made with love. Kyle choked that particular ingredient down bitterly. He'd joylessly demolished a quarter of the cake by the time Ned appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"What's that?" Ned asked.

"I don't know," Kyle said. He wiped frosting from his lips. "I'm wasting food. I'll put it up, I just. Jesus, this is the longest day."

"Do you want one?" Ned asked, getting the bourbon down from the top of the fridge. Where Stan couldn't reach it; Kyle had considered this before. He accepted a glass, but he didn't really want to drink it. He brought it into the den and set it on Stan's bedside table, built up the fire, and got himself a book from Randy's old office upstairs: _Volcanoes in Human History: The Far-Reaching Effects of Major Eruptions_.

Stan woke up when Jimbo came home, his truck crunching up the driveway. Kyle was in bed, on the opposite side, reading by candlelight. They had power, but there was no use wasting light bulbs when a candle would suffice. He pretended not to notice that Stan was awake. Stan heaved a couple of heavy sighs.

"Did you eat some?" he asked.

"Huh?" Kyle looked up from the book; he'd barely read three pages, had mostly been zoning out and thinking about Stan's hand on his cock and what it would mean, or not mean, in terms of the rest of his life. "Oh, the cake. Yeah, I had a few bites."

"Was it good?" Stan asked. He was lying on his back now, his arm draped over his eyes.

"Yeah," Kyle said. "How'd your baking go? I didn't see any bread out there."

"First experiment was a failure, but we have some ideas about how to improve. I threw the least offensive pieces out for the birds."

"I'm sure they'll appreciate it." Kyle looked back to his book. His heart was hammering. He wanted to ask Stan what they were to each other now, though he knew Stan wasn't sure, either. Stan crawled over to him and rested his head on Kyle's thigh. Kyle stroked his hair, pretending to read.

"Volcanoes?" Stan said.

"I'm working my way through your dad's geology books," Kyle said. "This was more exciting than tectonic plates."

"I see." Stan pulled himself up with a grunt, until his head was resting on Kyle's shoulder. "I smell that chocolate," he said.

"You want some?" Kyle asked.

He hadn't intended for Stan to interpret that as an invitation to kiss him, but he let Stan turn his face and lick his lips apart. Kyle opened for him and offered answering swipes of his tongue, pushing the taste of frosting into Stan's mouth. He felt hot all over, not sure he was allowed to enjoy this. He was a surrogate, a middleman, lamely relaying what Stan really wanted from Wendy, her sweeter taste. Still, when Stan pulled back to kiss Kyle's cheeks, Kyle collapsed into the feeling of having any part of something Stan wanted.

"Open your legs," Stan whispered. "I want to feel it get hard."

Kyle did as was asked, holding back tears. They both watched Stan's hand on his cock with a kind of solemnity, and Kyle was comforted by the fact that Stan's breath had quickened, as if there was something actually at stake for him here. Kyle wanted to be able to give orders, too, wanted to say, _kiss me, I want to feel like you love me_. He knew Stan did, actually. But it wasn't as simple as that.

"Guys?" Jimbo said, from the other side of the door, and Stan's hand went still. Kyle pulled the blankets up to cover himself.

"Yeah?" Stan said.

"Got two more beers out here if you're interested."

"In a minute," Stan said. He leaned over to bite at Kyle's neck, gently, then his ear lobe, less gently. Kyle whined at the back of his throat, thrashed up into Stan's grip, and came. "Oh, God," Stan whispered, watching. "I love the way it sorta jumps when it goes off."

Kyle was aware that Stan was speaking about dicks generally. He rolled against Stan's chest and clung, unwilling to let him get away this time. Stan rested his cheek on Kyle's head.

"I wouldn't be doing this if I thought you'd be happier someplace else," Stan said.

"I wouldn't be," Kyle said, and he grabbed a handful of the front of Stan's sweater, holding it over his face and breathing in his smell. He couldn't get Stan close enough, even now.

"That's not your fault," Stan said. "That you couldn't be happy somewhere else, that there's no other place for you - that's the world's fault. And maybe mine, too. But I know, dude. I know."

Kyle fell asleep like that, and dreamed that Stan carried him into the kitchen and placed him lovingly into a chair at the table. He realized, once there, that Stan had taken his ability to walk. There were cakes all over the table, and Wendy was at the oven with Butters, making more of them.

"Kyle and I worked it out," Stan told Butters while Wendy decorated a tall wedding cake with yellow roses. "He doesn't even want his legs that much, so we figured I might as well use them."

This was a lie, and Kyle knew it in the dream, but he said nothing. He was stuffing his face with cake, grabbing it by the handful, ruining carefully applied frosting.

He woke up when Stan moved away from him, toward his chair. Kyle was still groggy, half in the dream. He'd been angry at the table with those cakes, hurt, left behind, but now that he was awake, watching Stan reach down to place his feet on the wheelchair's leg rest, he was sorry that it hadn't been real.

"C'mon," Stan said when he saw Kyle blinking at him from the pillow. "Let's have a beer."

This time, Kyle took him up on the offer.


	7. Chapter 7

At the beginning of April, four things appeared unexpectedly in Kyle's life.

The first, which he felt foolish for not expecting, was his father. Gerald returned alone, having found no traces of Ike or Karen in the outlying communities. Kyle's initial thought, for which he felt horribly guilty, was that he would now have to leave Stan in order to care for his grieving father, but instead of returning to the cold and haunted Broflovski household, Gerald took up residence in Sharon Marsh's unused bedroom, where he slept on the floor out of respect for her, and, Kyle suspected, as a kind of penance for failing to find his missing son. Kyle no longer knew how to behave around his father, but in most cases he defaulted into caregiver mode, making sure that Gerald ate, that he had enough blankets, and that he did at least one thing, per day, that couldn't be classified as wallowing: a game of checkers with Jimbo, some stunted political remarks over tea with Kyle, or shoveling the front walk. Kyle was less successful in encouraging Stan to include activities in his daily routine, but his mobility issues made it much harder to prod him about, for practical and emotional reasons.

Despite Gerald's presence in the house, Kyle continued to feel like an orphan. He suspected that Stan felt that way, too, but it was not something they discussed. They'd received a letter from Sharon at the end of February, in response to a rumor she'd heard about troops pulling out of Montana and the Dakotas, and Stan asked Kyle to write to her with the news of his injury, in case Wendy's earlier letter had been lost. It was more likely that Sharon's letter and Wendy's had crossed in the mail during the arduous journey across battle lines, but Kyle wrote a second letter anyway, and was dismayed when Stan held up a hand to dismiss his offer to let him read it before he put it in the mail.

"Are you sure my version will be good enough?" Kyle asked, feeling certain that it wasn't. Stan had been especially morose since getting the letter from his mother, which was two months old, her generic well wishes and censored news from the front evidencing the fact that she was still oblivious to Stan's condition.

"It's fine," Stan said, from the cushioned bench at the bay window that he'd taken to occupying during the day. It was, at least, a step up from the bed. "Just send it. And stop looking at me like that. It's not like you're writing to tell her I'm dead."

The second surprise at the start of that month was the glorious return of Bebe, who brought with her a ragged but spirited brigade of young soldiers who she seemed to somehow be personally commanding. She marched into town grinning widely for the nervous crowd that had gathered to see which sort of soldiers were arriving. They had two Jeeps and a tank, something that Kyle hadn't seen driving down the streets of South Park since the very start of the war. It was hardly a reassuring sight, but soon the crowd was cheering and accepting embraces from Bebe, who some of them certainly only vaguely recognized. The others were strangers, but their American uniforms were enough to ensure them a warm welcome. Kyle kept to the outskirts during the initial fanfare, then wove through the crowd to help Wendy direct the exhausted brigade toward the Red Cross center.

"We were worried you were dead!" Wendy said, stating the obvious while Kyle took his turn to embrace Bebe. "What on earth - who are these men?"

"Well, they're my company," Bebe said. "And they're not all men!" She grinned, and Kyle saw a change in her appearance that he'd only half-noticed from a distance: the inside corner of her left front tooth had chipped off. Kyle found it oddly fetching, probably because, in combination with the dirty short hair that barely covered her ears, she looked more masculine this way, though still beautiful. The light had not gone out of her eyes. "I've been promoted to Captain," Bebe said when Wendy boggled at the news that this was her company.

"That was fast," Kyle said, though he wasn't exactly surprised. Bebe had some combination of Clyde's uncomplicated sense of duty and Butters' natural optimism that he could imagine as inspiring on a battlefield, especially when attached to such an attractive face.

"It's a long story," Bebe said, and Kyle noticed she was searching the crowd. "Stan and Butters made it home, didn't they? And I know, I mean, I never found Clyde, I know he didn't—"

"They all made it home," Wendy said, and she touched Bebe's arm. "Even Clyde, somehow. He's here."

"Here?" Bebe said. Her voice was strained, suddenly pinched. Wendy nodded.

"Clyde is here, and Stan, too. Butters was in bad shape when he got back. But when he passed, he had all of his friends and family around him. It seemed like a peaceful - he seemed to be at peace, in the end."

"Which is also a long story," Kyle said, thinking of Cartman's deathbed confession. "C'mon - I'll radio Gregory and tell him to get beds ready for your men. How many injured do you have?"

"Five," Bebe said. "Nothing critical, just some fractures that need to be redressed, and I've got a lieutenant who's been deaf since an explosion, seems to be suffering from PTSD." She put her hand out to stop Kyle before he could flip on the walkie talkie that he used to communicate with the Red Cross. "How's Stan?" she asked.

Kyle looked to Wendy, surprised that Bebe hadn't turned this gentle question on her. Wendy said nothing, probably noticing this, too.

"He can't walk," Kyle said. "They think - permanently."

Bebe nodded and squeezed Kyle's arm. She turned to Wendy.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "Please know - I did everything I could for him and Butters after the battle. Our leadership was wiped out, I was totally unprepared-"

"Please, don't," Wendy said, and Kyle saw her forcing herself to soften. "I'm sure you did everything you could. If they've put all this responsibility on you - it's unfathomable. I don't blame you for anything. Let's head to the RC camp. You're just in time for lunch."

Kyle was afraid Wendy had oversold the afternoon meal at the camp by calling it 'lunch,' sure that what they had to offer was hardly what a returning soldier might hope for once he reached the safety of home, but as he passed out rations to Bebe's hungry troops he began to feel like Santa Claus. The men and women she'd brought home with her were all visibly underweight, and they lit up at the sight of the food, as if hadn't enjoyed such luxuries as stale Pop Tarts and canned tuna in months. Gregory authorized him to spruce up the tuna by adding some mayo and relish from their paltry supply of condiments and slapping it on fresh bread from the black market bakery. As he passed out sandwiches and humbly accepted the troops' thanks, Kyle couldn't help but wish that all of their smudged faces and tired smiles were Stan's, that he had come home with this mostly intact group and not beforehand, on a stretcher.

"Are you authorized to be in South Park?" Gregory asked Bebe just as she bit into her sandwich.

"Let her chew!" Wendy snapped, but she was hovering, too, looking curious.

"No idea," Bebe said when she'd swallowed, not bothering to clear the mayonnaise residue from her lips. "I had orders to go south until I found a surviving outpost. Lines of communication are spare all across the west, and none of the military bases we ran across had heard about my promotion. They looked at me like I was nuts, because I'm a teenager and a girl, but my troops stood up for me. We still weren't welcomed to lodge anyplace for more than a night, so I thought, fuck it. Let's go home. My home, anyway. These guys are from all over."

"You'd better get in touch with your commanding officer soon," Gregory said. "This is an odd business, you just walking into town with an armed tank."

"You think there's much going on out there that isn't an 'odd business?'" Bebe said, and she scoffed, looking Gregory up and down dismissively. "You have no idea what it's like, the lack of structure, the snap decisions you have to make every fucking day, not just for yourself but for others-"

"Gregory, just give us some space," Wendy said, holding up her hand when he opened his mouth to protest. "Please, she's just come home."

"I was simply going to ask if she was going to declare martial law," Gregory said, still eying Bebe skeptically.

"Why would I?" Bebe asked. "Have the mayor and the cops jumped ship?"

"No, no," Wendy said, forcibly pushing Gregory away now. "He's just very suspicious of military personnel. Ironically, since he spends all day spoon feeding them."

"I have a complicated relationship with authority," Gregory said, and he stomped off in a huff. Kyle snorted, and Bebe looked up at him with a grin.

"That prick," she said. "Please tell me you're not fucking him," she said to Wendy, who was suddenly teary-eyed. "What - oh, Wends, I was joking, I know you wouldn't-"

"It's not that," Wendy said. "It's just. You're so changed. Stan is, too. I - it's this sick, childish feeling like I've been left out. Oh, God, I should stop talking." She hurried away then, and Bebe watched her go before taking another huge bite from her sandwich.

"Stan's condition must have hit her hard," she said, speaking with her mouth full now that she was merely in Kyle's presence. "How's he handling it?"

"Not any worse than you'd expect," Kyle said. "It's not just his, um. Legs, you know. You know?"

"Fuck," Bebe said, after staring at Kyle for a moment in confusion. He could see that she'd caught on. "Oh, fuck me. Poor Stan. Poor Wendy."

"You're not - did you have your chip removed?" Kyle asked. "You're not flinching when you curse."

"Removed?" She grinned. "Hell no! It's some kind of brain injury, I suspect. I landed on my head more than once during the battle that got me promoted. Ever since, I can sing 'Uncle Fucker' at the top of my lungs, and not even a buzz from that thing. Maybe I'm just too jaded to think of bad words as something naughty, you know? That's Peterson's theory." She gestured to Peterson, who was a shockingly petite woman with a bad gash from her collarbone to her shoulder that looked infected. Kyle made a mental note to have it looked at by one of the doctors. "'Cause that's what sets it off, right?" Bebe said, recapturing Kyle's attention. "Not the word itself, but our personal belief that it's gonna get us in trouble - the fear of saying it, or the power, or both, I guess."

"I guess," Kyle said. The science behind the way the chip actually functioned had intentionally been obscured, so that people who opposed the censorship laws couldn't develop ways to undo it without risking major brain damage. That was classified information that even Kyle's mother hadn't had access to. "I'm glad for you, anyway. That you can say how you really feel without getting shocked. Stan wants his removed, but. It's too dangerous, I think."

"Poor Stan," Bebe said, and Kyle left her to eat the rest of her sandwich in peace. He was headed for the doctor's tent up front when Clyde barreled into the infirmary in such a whirlwind of disorganized limbs that everyone startled. There was something alarming about his demeanor, but when Kyle saw Clyde's eyes fall on Bebe he knew it was only a kind blistering intensity of relief - the kind that Craig had displayed when he made a similar entrance and found Clyde safe and sound. Kyle was sure he would have looked much the same if he'd come upon Stan this way. Perhaps he had, for a moment, before he realized Stan's condition. Thinking this made him too depressed to watch Bebe and Clyde's reunion, but it hardly needed to be seen: he could picture it clearly from the sounds they were making, Clyde choked with emotion and Bebe laughing joyfully, both voices muffled by their embrace.

Kyle went home late that night, overtired from the sudden influx of patients, many of whom would be checked out already if they had anyplace to go. Gregory had taken up the task of finding lodging for all of Bebe's troops, but only after she'd had word that she was permitted to rest up in South Park until they were called back to duty. Kyle had to assume that losing Bebe to the front again would penetrate even Clyde's ironclad sanity. The two of them had been inseparable since Clyde had scooped her up into his arms, and Kyle saw them kissing twice during the remainder of his shift, Clyde shyly and Bebe with unashamed hunger that made Kyle blush and remember the way she'd devoured her sandwich.

It was dark when he arrived at the house, and he slipped in quietly, not wanting a scolding from his father or Stan for having walked home alone instead of staying for another two hours to ride home with Wendy and Gregory, whose shifts were always of the martyr-ish variety. Kyle had the excuse of getting home to Stan, but tonight he was halfway dreading it, as if Stan might sincerely be angry about the safe return of platoon he'd been part of when he was injured. Kyle found Stan at the kitchen table, which was always heartening, but something about the way he was peeling potatoes seemed defeated and angry. He was concentrating on his peeling to a weird degree and also going very slowly, as if he was relishing the skinning of an enemy.

"Hey," Kyle said when Stan didn't look up. "Sorry I'm late, I just. We had a busy day."

"I heard," Stan said. "Jimbo told me."

"Yeah, it's. You should see Bebe. Maybe she was already the way she was, um. Last time you saw her?"

"Last time I saw her she was covered in Butters' blood. So, hopefully not."

"No, she - just. Her tooth is chipped," Kyle said, and he bit the inside of his cheek. He was never saying the right thing. In bed together, they'd stopped saying anything. At night, after lights out, there were only Kyle's stifled moans and Stan's harsh breathing.

"I'm happy she's back," Stan said, and he set the potato down. "I'll see her eventually. Jimbo said they made her a Captain?"

"Yeah, that's what she told us. That's good news, or?"

"Well, it means all our commanding officers are dead, so not really."

"No, I - I know, I only meant, do you think she's up for the job? Do you think it suits her?"

"I saw her kill five guys before Butters pushed me off of that landmine. That makes her sound ruthless, but she never was into the killing like some of them were. She did it to save us - she basically saved me and Butters after the explosion, dragged us away, took a bullet in the shoulder while she did it."

"I didn't see a shoulder wound?"

"She must have had it field dressed. She was really low key, like we were in a video game or something, only - no, not glib, just. Calm? Except when Kenny died. She lost it almost as bad as Butters did. But she recovered better than he did, I guess. She said she was gonna get a tattoo of his name or some shit, that we all should."

"Well," Kyle said, pretty sure that plans for tattoos were low on Stan's list of priorities for the time being. "She was with Clyde when I left. He was practically in her lap, weeping profusely."

"Clyde," Stan said, and he stripped two quick peels from the potato. Kyle should have known not to mention him.

"A beer?" he said, going to the fridge.

"We're out."

"Oh. I'll get you some tomorrow. We could have Bebe over, you know, get a bottle of whiskey maybe, you could catch up-"

"I can't make plans like that," Stan said. When he looked up at Kyle, the sudden sadness in his eyes hurt worse than the irritation Kyle had expected. "Please, don't make plans for me like that yet."

"Okay, of course." Kyle wanted to hurry over and hug Stan's shoulders, kiss his neck, let his lips linger over the strong pound of his pulse. He did these things sometimes at night, in bed, but more often he was just spreading his legs under the blankets, letting Stan feel how hard he was just from lying beside him. Kyle wished Stan would at least whisper dirty things to him, even angry things, but the way Stan's breath started to come hard and fast when his hand was on Kyle's dick was enough to make him go off more quickly than he wanted to, most nights. "Potatoes tonight?" Kyle said, settling for putting his hand on Stan's shoulder when he passed behind him.

"Fries," Stan said. "I told Jimbo I want home fries."

"That sounds great. Do we have any meat?"

"Only the canned stuff from the rations."

"Ah. Well, I've gotten pretty good at frying that. I think? Anyway," he said, before Stan could answer, "In the spring I want to do an herb garden. That will help with-" He stopped talking then, afraid that he was again making plans that Stan didn't want to hear. Stan said nothing, just went on peeling the potato in that slow, unnerving fashion. "I'm going to shower," Kyle said. "I've been in the company of a lot of filthy people today." He felt bad for saying it that way, as if he'd ever been in a company the way those soldiers were, or the way Stan had been, and in hindsight it seemed disrespectful to call them filthy. He waited to be chastized, then headed into the bedroom when Stan said nothing.

He was aware that he had become pathetic, and that Wendy's advice to take a hard line on some things was good, more what Stan needed than some shrinking yes man who opened his legs gladly for Stan's hand. Kyle sometimes lay there with his eyes closed, trying not to buck up too desperately, and shuddered in gratitude to still have this: Stan's hands, his touch, and his curious need to claim Kyle's body. Then he would feel guilty, cleaning the come off of his stomach, for being glad about something that he wasn't even sure that Stan enjoyed. He also wasn't sure why Stan would do it if he didn't like it on some level, but Stan always went dark afterward, and it wasn't hard to guess why. It was something more profound than envy, a longing that couldn't even be felt properly, not the way it once had been. Kyle wasn't sure what the memory of desire would be like; he'd always wanted the same thing, or at least couldn't remember ever wanting anything the way he wanted Stan. Kyle felt like he still didn't have him, and when he touched himself in the shower he fantasized not about the pre-war Stan, who could have held him up against the shower wall and driven into him in the reckless way Kyle thought he might like, but about the Stan he had now, or didn't have. He imagined Stan kissing him sloppily, smiling against his mouth, whispering that he'd dreamed about this, too. It wasn't enough to get off on, just an idle starter fantasy: he came when he thought about Stan's wicked voice in his ear, unforgiving as he instructed Kyle to jerk his cock, to let Stan see it, feel it, have it.

Jimbo was more animated than usual at dinner, his mood bolstered by the return of the troops. Gerald and Stan were quiet, and Ned put in a few agreeable remarks here and there. Kyle was distracted, wondering if Clyde had taken Bebe home yet, if they were having glorious reunion sex, and if Craig was grinding his teeth in the next room. It had been Kyle's fear - not his worst fear, certainly, but a significant one - that Stan would run into Wendy's arms and Kyle would have to witness their renewed completeness with a forced smile. He doubted that Craig would bother to force one.

"So she seemed okay?" Stan said when Kyle was helping him into a clean pair of sweatpants. "Bebe?"

"Yeah, weirdly," Kyle said. "Or I guess it's not weird for her, but she seemed changed, in a good way? Maybe what she's done hasn't hit her yet."

He was afraid Stan might object to the idea that Bebe would eventually feel guilty for her feats in battle, but he only nodded glumly and pulled his pants up while Kyle held him up enough to lift his ass off the bed for a moment. When he was dressed Stan pulled himself toward the pillows, and he held the blankets up for Kyle as he hurried to put his own pajamas on. The room was icy, snow falling steadily outside.

"You look tired," Stan said as he gathered Kyle to him. For warmth, Kyle thought, but he burrowed against Stan's chest shamelessly anyway.

"I guess I am," Kyle said. "It was a good day at work, though." He stopped himself from clarifying this by mentioning that none of Bebe's troops had serious injuries. "Wendy seemed a little upset."

"How come?"

"I guess because of how Bebe has changed, you know, without her." He glanced up at Stan, cautious about pursuing the subject, because of the obvious parallels. Stan had changed without Wendy, too, and without Kyle.

"That probably would have happened anyway," Stan said, and he touched Kyle's cheek gently, aimlessly. "For them, I mean. They were always really different, even here." Not like you and me, he seemed to be saying. Kyle smiled and tucked his face to Stan's chest again.

For a while they lay together talking about the troops Kyle had helped to feed and shelter that afternoon - Stan knew most of them, and had stories about a few. Kyle felt warm and pleasantly sleepy, almost like they were a normal couple recounting their day for each other as they shared the same pillow. He was surprised when Stan reached under his shirt to rub his belly, lingering there only for a few moments before he reached down to cup Kyle's cock. Stan hadn't had anything to drink before, during, or after dinner, and he usually didn't do this when he was sober. Kyle moaned softly as Stan massaged him, getting him hard, and he squirmed up to put his face against Stan's neck, which always got hot when they did this, corresponding to Kyle's red cheeks.

"It happens so quick," Stan said, presumably meaning Kyle's erection, which was stiffening rapidly in Stan's palm. "I guess I knew that. I mean, not about you. About me. Before."

"Go slower," Kyle said, experimentally. He'd never given instructions before. "Please, um. I want to last."

"Yeah?" Stan obeyed, but only for a moment. He was greedy down there, squeezing and rubbing, smearing precome. Kyle wondered what would happen in the summer, if this was still going on. He was very glad for the cover of the blankets, as if their rational selves lived above them and the rest below. When Stan nudged at the insides of his thighs, he spread them more widely, his flush creeping down to his chest. He wondered if Stan would ever put his mouth down there, and couldn't decide if he hated or loved the idea. Mostly he hated it: this was so unfair to Stan already.

"Yeah," Kyle huffed, involuntarily, when Stan reached down to rub his balls with swirling fingertips, tangling the hair on them. "I should trim it," Kyle said.

"Doesn't it keep you warm in winter, though?" Stan said, and he smiled when Kyle peeked at him. Kyle's flush deepened; it was the first time he could remember Stan smiling during their nighttime activities.

"Sure," Kyle said. "It's like a - what do you call those things?"

"A muff," Stan said, and they both laughed. Stan reached down slide his hand through the lowest tufts of ball hair, and Kyle gasped when Stan's fingers tickled over places that he hadn't touched before. "You like that?" Stan asked, murmuring.

"I don't know," Kyle said. He spread his legs wider, and Stan's fingers remained, pressing under his balls, his thumb dipping lower. "Ah - yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. I mean, it's okay."

Kyle thought he would blow his load when Stan took his knee, bent it, and pushed his leg up toward his chest, still under the blankets. Kyle did the same with his other leg, wishing that the room was darker, that they weren't staring into each other's eyes as Stan's fingers brushed over his nervous, twitching hole.

"Fuck," Kyle said, and he convulsed when his v-chip fired, his hands going to his knees, fingernails biting into skin.

"Shh, okay, I'll stop," Stan said, and Kyle shook his head hard, whining.

"Don't," he said, still buzzing from the chip. He was buzzing down there, too, missing Stan's fingers. "It's - keep going. I won't curse."

"Some people say it feels good," Stan said, staring at him, not touching him. "During sex, I mean. Is that what this is?"

"Sex?" Kyle asked, his voice cracking. "Oh, uh. I-"

"I mean, whatever," Stan said, suddenly impatient, and then he rolled away. Kyle began to lower his legs, dejected, and got back into position when he saw that Stan had only been after a tube of ointment that Kyle had left on the bedside table the night before - he'd been using it for his patches of particularly dry skin, mostly on his elbows. He got it every winter. His heart was hammering as he watched Stan smear some of the stuff onto his fingers, working intently, frowning a little.

"You want this?" Kyle said, stunned. He regretted bringing it up when Stan looked at him and stopped spreading ointment on his fingers.

"I keep thinking about it," Stan said. "Because, I don't know. Sometimes your cock depresses me."

"Sorry."

"It's not your fault. But this is, like. Something different from what I would have done anyway. You know, I mean, obviously. I never did this with Wendy."

"Well." Kyle looked up at the ceiling. "You never touched her cock, either, but, okay."

"Let's just not talk," Stan said, a little sharply. Kyle turned to look at him, and Stan's eyes softened. "Okay?" he said.

"I'm fine with that, but don't do it fast, or-"

"Obviously, yeah, just tell me when you want me to stop."

"Uh-huh."

Kyle gripped the backs of his knees under the blankets, glad that Stan couldn't see him do so. Then he worried that, unseeing, Stan might do this clumsily enough to hurt him. The nervous tension left his shoulders as Stan moved his finger in circles, loosening him, not even pushing in yet. Kyle shuddered, relaxed again, and clenched around the pad of Stan's finger as it wiggled him open a little at a time. Stan was breathing even harder than he was.

They didn't talk, and Kyle mostly kept his eyes closed. It hurt a little, and he felt overly exposed despite the blankets, Stan's gaze burning against his eyelids. Kyle peeked, and he moaned softly when his eyes met Stan's, feeling like he'd been peeled down to a previously unknown level of nakedness.

"There's a spot," Stan said, sliding his finger in deeper.

"The prostate," Kyle said. "I don't even. I've never, like. Found it. I don't know where it is." He laughed at how stupid that sounded, and was a little hurt when Stan continued staring down at him seriously. His finger was moving in a meaningful way, quirking painfully at moments while he sought Kyle's 'spot.' He wanted to be good at this, Kyle thought, or maybe he just wanted to see Kyle get weak and powerless, to trade roles. Kyle felt weak and powerless even when he strutted around the room and went off in Stan's hand; he still thought Stan was more of a man than he'd ever be.

"Is that it?" Stan asked when Kyle jerked, taken off guard by the sensation. He nodded, and bit his lip hard to keep himself from cursing as Stan rubbed him there again. "Don't," Stan said when Kyle reached for his cock. "I want you to come just like this. From this."

"Guh, but-" Kyle was throbbing, twitching, but even in this state he could see what Stan was getting at, maybe: taking control of Kyle's pleasure, taking it away from him even as he milked orgasms from him, that was what Stan wanted. The prostate might not have been hard to find, but Stan's attention to it was overwhelming, and Kyle wanted to say so but didn't. He was afraid it would hurt when he came, but what he should have been worried about was shouting loudly enough to alert the entire household to what they were doing. As his climax wound down he realized he was drooling, and he wiped his mouth while Stan slowly removed his finger. They studied each other, Kyle hoping that Stan would feel triumphant, but he just looked distant and vaguely angry, like he always did after Kyle came.

"I should wash my hand," Stan said.

"Kiss me first?" Kyle said. "Please?"

"Oh - dude." Stan leaned down to cup Kyle's cheek with his clean hand, and he coaxed Kyle's trembling lips apart with his tongue, kissing him with deliberate care. He tasted extra salty, from the home fries. Kyle was sniffling when Stan pulled back, not on the verge of tears exactly, just shaken.

"So," Kyle said, uncomfortable with the way Stan was staring at him. "That was my first, uh, thing in my ass. I never put mine, you know, all the way in."

"I've never seen you like that," Stan said. Kyle couldn't tell if he was impressed or disturbed. He shrugged.

"I was loud."

"Yeah, you were," Stan said, and he finally looked kind of proud. He bent down to kiss Kyle on the mouth once more before crawling toward his chair. Kyle moaned at the sticky mess under the blankets, and flipped them over while Stan washed his hands. He felt like he should wash up, too, but didn't want to leave the heat of the blankets long enough to do it. He was still wearing his thermal shirt, his sleep pants and underwear balled up inside the layers of blankets somewhere. Stan wheeled himself back into the room, looking tired, and Kyle reached for him as he pulled himself from the chair into the bed.

"I liked it," Kyle said when they were holding each other. Stan's heartbeat was steady under his ear; Kyle's was still racing.

"Yeah, I could tell," Stan said, and Kyle felt stupid, but he was content again when Stan stroked his hair and kissed the crown of his head. "Sometimes I hate that you're letting me do this," he said after a while, when Kyle had begun to drift to sleep. He blinked awake groggily, not sure how to respond.

"I would have let you do it anyway," he said, because there was no point in keeping the secret anymore. "Before."

Stan said nothing, which was worrisome, but Kyle was too tired to stay awake and fret. Instead, he had unsettling dreams that Stan was making love to him, for real, with his cock, and Kyle was reeling with joy at this turn of events, throwing his head back only to look up again and shout in horror when he saw that it was actually Cartman on top of him, laughing in triumph as he thrust into Kyle, who he'd tricked somehow. Kyle woke struggling, trying to push Cartman away, but it was Stan who was actually holding him, whispering that it was okay, that it had only been a nightmare. Kyle clung to Stan, panting, dizzy from the transitions.

"You're safe," Stan whispered as Kyle's breathing began to slow down. He rubbed Kyle's back, kissed his forehead. "You're okay, dude."

Going about his chores in town over the following two days, Kyle didn't feel safe, exactly. The dream haunted him; it had felt so real, perhaps because he woke up with an actual ache in his ass. The presence of Bebe's troops was also a bit unnerving. They carried their guns around at the Red Cross center, and left them strapped across their backs while they laughed at the card table. Gregory was frantically trying to find them temporary lodging. Kyle could see that Gregory felt his territory had been usurped. He continued to have run-ins with Bebe over trivial matters.

"I don't like this," Gregory said to Kyle when they were having lunch together in the break room one afternoon, sharing a bowl of hot noodles in a woefully under-seasoned broth. "There's something a bit - _Heart of Darkness_ about these people, don't you think? Bebe especially."

"Yeah, she's a real Colonel Kurtz," Kyle said, and he snorted. "What do you think is going to happen? They're not trying to take over the town, or even the camp. They're a little boisterous, and it annoys me, too, but they're just glad to be alive or whatever."

Gregory seemed unconvinced. Wendy's spirits had lifted after her initial shock at seeing the new chipped-toothed, short-haired Bebe, and they seemed to be growing close again, whispering together about Clyde and laughing about Gregory. Kyle suspected this was part of why Gregory was so resentful of Bebe, and he wished Wendy at least would be more sensitive to his feelings. She'd largely stopped asking Kyle about Stan, but he could see her repressing the urge to question him thoroughly every time they spoke.

"Clyde is begging Bebe to come and stay at his house," she told Kyle when she was giving him a ride home one evening. "He says she can bring her whole platoon. He's such a doofus. I can't believe he survived behind enemy lines on his own."

"I guess he was just that determined to get back to her," Kyle said, and that was when the headlights of Wendy's car fell on the third major surprise that Kyle encountered in those early weeks of April: a man crossing the road, looking positively feral when he froze for a moment in the beams of light. Wendy shouted when the man ran off into the darkness, and Kyle knew she had seen what he had: Kenny McCormick.

"Was that-" Wendy asked, whirling on him, and Kyle nodded.

"I don't understand," Kyle said. "I thought. Isn't he dead?"

"Well, missing in action," Wendy said. She frowned as if struggling to recall some detail. "But I - but he - we should go back and tell Bebe!"

"But he's gone," Kyle said. "Maybe I should get out and chase him?"

"I doubt he's gotten far, in this weather," Wendy said. She rolled down the driver's side window, letting swirling snowflakes in. "Kenny!" she called. "Kenny, it's us! Wendy and Kyle! Are you there? Come out, please!"

"Why wouldn't he tell us he was home?" Kyle asked. His heart was hammering; he felt like he'd just seen evidence of the afterlife, an actual ghost.

"Maybe he deserted," Wendy said, whispering. "He could get the death penalty for that."

"Jesus," Kyle said.

"Kenny!" Wendy called again, less confidently this time. "It's okay! You can trust us!"

"Don't say that," Kyle said, not sure what the penalty for aiding a deserter was. Anyone who was unlucky enough to find themselves in what had become of the nation's prisons was essentially condemned to death.

"He's all alone, though, in the cold," Wendy said. She stared out the window forlornly. "Seems wrong just to drive away."

"He's not going to come to us," Kyle said. "Kenny's not the type who would burden his friends with his criminal activity." He felt guilty, describing it that way, but also plainly shocked: Kenny had been almost desperate to join the Army and see action, and even if it hadn't been what he'd expected, Kyle couldn't imagine him running away in such a cowardly fashion. "You'd better not tell Bebe," Kyle said when Wendy finally put the window up.

"I won't," Wendy said. "She's got enough to worry about. This is so effed up, Kyle."

"I know. And why would the idiot come back here, of all places, where people will recognize him?"

Kyle found out soon enough, and when he did he felt he should have known. He had the following day off from the center, but he could hardly lounge about: even with Jimbo and Ned, and the occasional help from Gerald, there was a list of chores for him every time he had a day away from the Red Cross, and first off was chopping wood. They were tearing through firewood at an alarming rate now that they had to heat three bedrooms and feed five people from the wood-burning stove. Ned had picked up some logs two days before, but they all needed splitting, and with Jimbo's back hurting him again, Kyle was the man for the job. It depressed him to think of Stan lingering in their bed, not just because he wanted to be there himself, warm and cozy, but because he knew Stan was lying awake, listening to the distant thump of the ax, feeling like shit for not being able to help.

He was short of breath and sweating inside his clothes by the time he noticed that he was being watched. His immediate suspicion was Cartman, and he gripped the ax with both hands, as if Cartman's attacks were ever that straightforward. But the man watching him from the pine grove behind the house was too thin to be Cartman: very thin, in fact, something that was noticeable even under his heavy coat, which was threadbare. It was Kenny.

"What the eff?" Kyle called as Kenny walked toward him. Kyle was still holding the ax, though Kenny appeared to be weaponless. He had a fuzzy, dark blond beard and his eyes seemed sunken, his cheeks hollow. Kyle was afraid of him as he drew closer, and the ax was hardly reassuring; he hadn't been to war, hadn't killed anyone, and couldn't have swung it at his childhood friend.

"Where's my fucking sister?" Kenny asked. He didn't even flinch with the curse. Kyle wondered if his v-chip had lost its power the way that Bebe's had, or if he'd had it removed in some other unsavory way.

"Karen - oh, God. She ran away with Ike. I'm so sorry. They left while I was away from the house."

" _Ike_? Your dead three-year-old brother?"

"Shit," Kyle said, and the zap from the v-chip hit him hard. He stumbled forward, and Kenny caught him. "Ah, Kenny-"

"Ike's been alive all this time," Kenny said, and he sighed when Kyle looked up at him. "I should have guessed. That's a very Sheila Broflovski move, faking his death to keep him at home. So Karen, what? Found him when she was cleaning?"

"Something like that. They left a note. They're in love, they say."

"Fucking hell. Where'd they run away to?"

"I don't know! My father went looking for them, he was gone for almost two months. He couldn't find any trace of them. Ike can't have gone far, though, he's got no border crossing papers-"

"Fuck," Kenny hissed. He took off his ski cap and ran his hand through his hair, which looked filthy. He was wearing fingerless gloves, and Kyle would have joked that his completed his hobo look, under difference circumstances. "Wendy was right," Kenny said when he turned back to Kyle. He was worrying the hat between his hands, looking much less scary. Kyle put the ax down. "I should have stayed," Kenny said. "My place was here."

"What happened?" Kyle asked. He looked around to make sure they hadn't been seen. Jimbo would relish the chance to turn in a deserter; for that matter, so might Stan. "Did you - I mean. People thought you were dead. Or missing, at least."

"I can't explain what happened," Kenny said. "I'm sure everyone around here will think I deserted. I didn't. It doesn't matter, though. I've got to find Karen."

"Let me bring you something to eat," Kyle said. "You look - awful. Sorry."

"I didn't come here to take food from you," Kenny said. "What I need is a vehicle."

"Well, sorry, I can't just give you a car."

"Goddammit, Kyle, someone's got to find them! They're only fourteen!"

"I know that! Just - let me think for a second!" He brought Kenny closer to the house, out of sight of the road. "What happened to your chip?"

"Huh?" Kenny raised his lip, revealing teeth that were bizarrely, perfectly white, as if he'd had brand new veneers installed recently.

"Your v-chip. You've been cursing without, you know. Buzzing, seems like."

"Oh, that fucking thing. It's gone. Everything I had is gone, Karen is - fuck!" He kicked at the snow, sending some powder flying. "I've got to find her," he said when he turned back.

"Well, maybe if you could fix my dad's car," Kyle said, groaning. He knew he shouldn't get involved, and wanted to consult with Stan, but was afraid of what his reaction might be. "It was on its last leg by the time he came home, and we haven't gotten it to start in a week. But I don't see how you could fix a car without being spotted."

Kenny nodded to himself, pacing. "What's the problem?" he asked. "Engine won't turn over, or-?"

"Yeah - I guess? I don't know anything about cars, to be honest with you."

"I don't know much myself," Kenny said. "Fuck, and everyone assumes I'm some kind of auto shop whiz, just 'cause I'm low rent and boned a lot of chicks in high school. You know who does know cars? Christophe. Is he in town?"

"Yes," Kyle said. "He, uh. He wouldn't be able to do the work himself, though. He lost his hands in combat."

Kenny stopped pacing and stared at Kyle for a moment. He looked younger, in a way that Kyle couldn't put his finger on, despite the fuzzy beard.

"Both hands?" Kenny said, weakly. Kyle nodded.

"He's got a prosthetic on the right one, but, yeah. Probably won't be able to do much with it in terms of engine repair. He's still learning how to eat with it. And, listen. Stan is back, too. And Bebe. Even Clyde found his way home."

"Jesus, that's good," Kenny said. "And Butters?"

Kyle shook his head. Kenny cursed and kicked more snow.

"Stan is only okay from the waist up," Kyle said. "He's still got his legs and everything, but he's paralyzed. Bebe and Clyde are fine, seemingly."

"Stan-" Kenny flinched as if he'd cursed. "Where is he?"

"Inside, in bed."

"He. Ah- and it's forever?"

"Yeah, forever." Kyle was beginning to feel guilty, as if he was sharing extremely personal information. Stan's condition was simultaneously public and private in ways that made Kyle's stomach twist up with angry dread whenever he had to discuss it.

"I've got to go," Kenny said. They could hear a car coming down the street, snow crunching under tire chains. It would probably be Jimbo, home from the market. "Ask Christophe about the car, okay? Just tell him you want it fixed for yourself. We have to find them, Kyle, they're all alone."

"They've got each other," Kyle said, but he nodded. "I know. Okay. Be careful - don't get caught."

"You're not mad at me?" Kenny asked, backing away. "For deserting?"

"I wasn't there. I don't know what happened. And, look - who the hell am I to judge? I didn't even go. You'd better take off," he said, lowering his voice. He could hear Jimbo getting out of the car at the front of the house. Kenny nodded and ran into the woods.

Feeling dazed, Kyle returned to chopping wood. He spent thirty more minutes at it, until he was exhausted and needed to replenish his energy with a slice of bread or some of the powdered juice mix from their rations. He still wasn't sure what to tell Stan about Kenny.

Stan was still in bed, but he sat up against the pillows to watch as Kyle peeled off his sweaty clothes. Kyle had devoured bread in the kitchen and had set a piece on the bedside table for Stan, with some special blackberry jelly that he liked. Stan hadn't touched it yet. He mostly ate in the evenings, with beer as a side dish.

"What's wrong?" Stan asked as soon as Kyle looked at him.

"I just saw Kenny," Kyle said, feeling as if he was about to get in trouble, as if he was complicit in Kenny's cowardice. He certainly felt sympathetic toward it, being a coward himself in many respects. Stan stared at him, frowning.

"Like, in real life? You - what do you mean you saw him?"

"He's here. You can't tell anyone, especially not Jimbo."

"What - how?"

"I don't know. I just have this feeling like he didn't - you didn't see him run away, did you?"

"No! I saw-" Stan winced and shook his head. "I don't know what I saw. I have so many dreams about all of them dying, and it was even worse when I was in action. I think I'd convinced myself I saw him blown to bits."

"Well. He's in one piece. Physically, anyway. He wants me to fix up the Volvo and let him use it to track Karen and Ike down."

"Right, because that worked so well when your old man tried it."

"He's right, though, Stan. If they're out there - somewhere - God, I hate to think of what kind of shape they might be in. They were so stupid. But part of me understands why Ike did it. He was in a kind of prison, you know, his whole life."

"Yeah, I think I can imagine," Stan said, darkly. Kyle sat by the fire, still in only his underwear. He would have a shower in a minute. His limbs were shaky from overexertion, or maybe he was just feeling nervous, panicked.

"Are you angry?" Kyle asked. "At Kenny, I mean?"

"I'm confused," Stan said. "How did he get back?"

"The same way Clyde and Bebe did, presumably. He walked. Do you remember the last time you saw him?"

Stan shook his head. "I remember he was with us right when we started getting into the really bad weather, the deepest snow I'd ever seen outside of the mountains. And then the real fighting started, and all the days blurred together. The last thing I really remember is that he'd stopped sleeping. He'd just stay up all night and watch over us. We'd volunteer to take turns, even though it wasn't really necessary with the regular guard rotation, but toward the end it was just him. He got real quiet."

"Would you want to see him?" Kyle asked. Bebe asked him daily when she could visit Stan, and Kyle was tired of trying to explain, without getting into detail, that Stan wasn't always up for visitors.

"Kenny," Stan said, vaguely. He shrugged. "Maybe. Just to see for myself that he's really alive."

At the Red Cross camp the next day, Kyle took Wendy aside and told her about his encounter with Kenny, leaving out the mentions of Ike. She was quiet for a moment when he was done, which was her habit: she rarely spoke quickly when formulating plans or an opinion.

"I don't understand, though," she said. "Why would Karen McCormick just leave town by herself?"

"Why wouldn't she? There's nothing here for her. Maybe she went to find work. Anyway, can you get the message to Christophe, my request to fix the car? I can pay him a little, but I don't have much to spare. I'd rather you ask him than get Gregory involved. He's effing suspicious of everything these days."

"Gregory is just feeling emasculated by Bebe," Wendy said, waving her hand. "But fine, I'll ask Christophe. Did you tell Stan any of this?"

"Yes, all of it," Kyle said, bristling a little. "I tell him everything."

"Speaking of Stan," Wendy said, and she smiled genuinely, which never happened when the subject of her ex-fiance came up. "I had a _great_ idea last night."

"Yeah?"

"My mom's been feeding these stray cats," Wendy said. "It's really sad, because normally I would make her trap them and get them spayed and neutered, you know, to control the population of all these homeless animals - it's been a huge problem since half the town emptied out. People left their pets behind."

"I always see random dogs wandering around," Kyle said. Stan had tried to feed them in secret for a while, until his mother broke down in tears and explained to him that they just didn't have enough food to spare.

"Exactly," Wendy said. She was animated in a way that Kyle hadn't seen in a while, and it was nice to see her eyes sparkling with the inertia of some new idea. "So what I'm thinking is: we're all a little jaded about humanity after ten years of war, but most people still love animals, and wish they could do more to help them. So clearly, what we need is an animal shelter."

"Well, yeah," Kyle said, and he felt badly for scoffing, though Wendy didn't seem fazed. "But no one can afford to take care of animals right now. Everyone in town is broke."

"Not everyone."

"Okay." Kyle rolled his eyes. "Everyone but Cartman and Craig. Good luck getting them to invest."

"I agree with you about Craig," she said. "Particularly since Bebe's come back," she said, lowering her voice. "He's stopped volunteering here, and he jacked up his prices on meds and other supplies. I know he was keeping Cartman from gouging us before, but - well, anyway. But Cartman always had a soft spot for cats, remember?"

"I guess," Kyle said, and he held up his hands. "Look, try it if you want, but I'm not getting involved with anything that he's got his hands in." Even using that expression made Kyle flush uncomfortably, remembering the night in Butters' bedroom.

"But think of how Stan might be motivated to leave the house by something like this!" Wendy grabbed both of Kyle's arms and shook him lightly. She was very physical when determined. "I was thinking about it, and it might literally be the only thing that could move him, the idea of taking care of animals who would starve and die without his help."

"Maybe he's not ready to have that asked of him," Kyle said tightly.

"Kyle, it's been months, and he hasn't even left that house. You know how important it is to him to feel needed. To take care of things - people, I mean. Animals, in this case. I was up all night making plans, I really think this is perfect."

Kyle stared at her warily for a moment. It was as if she had convinced herself that this was the first step toward getting Stan back. Kyle was afraid she might be right.

"Go ask Cartman, I guess," he said. "Though I doubt he'll let Stan anywhere near his 'property,' which is what he'll consider this if he funds it."

"Stan and Cartman were always on okay terms," Wendy said, frowning. "I mean, they bickered, same as you and Cartman-"

"Things have changed," Kyle said.

"How? When Stan hasn't seen him since he got back? Unless you count that awful scene at Butters' death bed. What did Stan do then that would make Cartman resent him?"

"They got in a fight, okay? The night before he left for basic training, at Butters' party. I guess you had already gone home."

"I never heard anything about this." Wendy was frowning in her truth-seeking way, studying Kyle's face as if she was looking for the cracks in his story. Kyle shook his head.

"It was just - some drunken thing. But Cartman, well. He got his ass kicked. Look, I don't know, whatever. Do what you can. Who knows if Stan will even be interested."

"His negativity is really rubbing off on you," Wendy said. Kyle could see that she was hurt by his lack of excitement over this idea, like a child who had run up to a parent to show them a drawing, only to be brushed away. But that was exactly the problem, and why Kyle didn't care that he'd hurt her: she was being childish. He did feel guilty when he considered that she had no frame of reference for what Stan was like now, since he refused to see her.

"I was always negative," Kyle said. "And 'negative' is a really glib way to describe the situation. But, look. If this did actually work out, and you got funding and got Stan involved, yeah, I do think it would be good for him. Great for him. And just - thanks for thinking of him."

Wendy scoffed. "Now who's being glib? Thanks for thinking of him? Really? Kyle, we were going to be married. He was the light of my effing life. Do you think there's ever a moment, in the course of any day, when I'm not thinking about him? You think I'm able to look at a single soldier in this place and not think about how he's better or worse off than Stan?"

"Okay, I'm sorry," Kyle said. His face was hot; he felt like an idiot. Wendy didn't know about his new life beneath the blankets with Stan, and even if she had, she'd have laughed at Kyle's assumption that having Stan's fingers up his ass a few times meant that whatever Stan had shared with Wendy was truly over. "I support you," he said, weakly, as she turned to go. "I really do."

"Just take care of Kenny," she said, whispering. "I'll deal with Cartman."

Kyle walked home that night, not wanting to ride home with Wendy after their tense exchange. He wasn't sure if it was because he knew Kenny was lurking around, or because Wendy had introduced the chilling prospect of going to Cartman for a favor, but he felt more unnerved on the long walk home than he typically did. The roads were bad, and only a few cars passed him. He was nervous each time one did, suddenly afraid that he was still in danger of being abducted for the crime of being his mother's son. Everyone at home would be horrified if they knew that he was making himself vulnerable this way. He pulled his hat down more firmly over his ears, tucking in stray curls. An icy wind was blowing against him, and his face felt numb by the time he laid eyes on the welcome sight of his neighborhood. He picked up the pace, still feeling as if something was off, like a slowly approaching menace had been following him all the way home, keeping back just far enough to stay out of sight.

It was his habit to check the mailbox before going inside, always hoping for a letter from Sharon, or even something cryptic from Ike. The mail came at irregular times, sometimes skipping a day or two, so he never knew what to expect when he opened the mailbox. That night, what he found inside was the fourth unexpected arrival that would alter his life during the month of April. It was a package that felt heavy when he pulled it out to read the name on the front: KYLE, written in neat block letters. It was longer than it was wide, just short enough to fit fully inside the mailbox, and the brown packaging was taped clumsily around whatever was inside. Kyle looked up and down the street, feeling watched. He noticed footprints in the snow that looked fairly recent. It hadn't been the mailman: there were no stamps on the package, no address, just Kyle's name. He tucked it inside his coat and hurried for the house.

Stan was in the living room with Jimbo, which surprised Kyle. Rarely did Stan venture from his usual path of bedroom to kitchen and back again. He smiled at Stan, who was seated on the couch beside Jimbo, both of them holding bottles of beer. There was a perhaps irresponsibly large fire in the hearth, the radio was playing a news report at a low volume, and in general the scene was much more domestic than what Kyle usually arrived home to. Stan returned his smile and beckoned for him to join them.

"Just a sec," Kyle said. "I'm gonna change, maybe shower."

"Got us a real pork roast for dinner!" Jimbo said. His cheeks were pink; he seemed tipsy.

"What's the occasion?" Kyle asked, hoping his father would eat with them. Gerald had once been the only member of the Broflovski family who didn't eat pork, a holdover from childhood that was more habit than religious devotion.

"We finally won a battle," Stan said, gesturing to the radio. "Canada was advancing toward the Mexican border on the west coast, and we beat them back."

"Wow," Kyle said, disheartened. He tended to tune news about the war out, because every casualty on both sides was attributable to his mother in some way, and he hadn't let it sink in that California was so heavily occupied that the Canadians were actually approaching Mexico. If they redoubled their efforts and reached the border, they would certainly come west after they'd secured it, into Nevada and Colorado. "That's awesome," Kyle said, because there was no point in spoiling their mood. "And pork roast sounds great. I'll be right back."

He headed into the bedroom and shut the door behind him. Ned was in the kitchen, and the pork smelled delicious. Kyle wanted to feel optimistic along with the others, but whenever he tried to he would hear Wendy and Gregory's voices in his head, telling him that the American surrender was just a matter of time. The execution of Terrance and Philip had angered many countries enough to ally with Canada, and then there were those who jumped aboard for their own opportunistic reasons, hoping to become the next major world power after North America became a wasteland. Kyle stood in the center of the room for a while, still wearing his coat, dazed with dread. He remembered the package and began undoing his buttons, a little afraid to find out what was inside. It was almost heavy enough to be a simple bomb, but the shape felt solid and basic, like a piece of wood. It was taped up so thoroughly that he had to use his knife to cut it open.

It was a piece of wood: an intricately carved, smoothly polished wooden cock. A dildo. He put it down on the bed, feeling violated, his ears buzzing. For a moment he was certain he could hear the echo of Cartman's laughter, and he whirled around to make sure the curtains were shut. They were not, and he corrected that quickly, his eyes burning. Who else would leave this in the mailbox with his name on it? And certainly Cartman was out there somewhere, having waited until Kyle approached to ensure that he was the one to unwrap it. Kyle wished the fire in the room was lit; he would have pitched the thing in if he could.

He walked back toward the bed, shrugging his coat off onto the floor as he went. The dildo was lying there in its packaging, looking strangely friendly, despite its origins. It was amazingly detailed, with veins up the shaft and a slit across the thick head. There were no balls, just a slightly flared base. It was gleaming; it seemed new. Kyle couldn't stop staring at it.

"Kyle?"

His father was knocking. Kyle felt a bone-deep shame as he grabbed the thing and cast around the room searching for a hiding place, as if he had spent food rations on this at the black market. Gerald was opening the door, so he had to settle for stuffing it under the mattress, near the foot of the bed.

"I didn't hear Wendy's car," Gerald said, frowning in the doorway.

"You just burst in here like that?" Kyle said, teenage fury bubbling up in him for the first time in years. His face was bright red, but at least he had the excuse that he'd just come in out of the cold.

"Kyle, I don't want you walking home alone," Gerald said. "Especially on a night like this, with people getting drunk and celebrating the battle."

"If they're celebrating, won't they want to congratulate me, rather than kill me, for being her son?"

Kyle felt badly as soon as he'd said it. Gerald wilted and shook his head slowly.

"Kyle, please," he said, and the weakness of his voice was embarrassing; Kyle's eyes burned again. "You're all I have left."

"Dad-"

Kyle went to him and embraced him. He felt skinny, and he looked so much older than he was. It was painful to be close to him now, difficult even to look at him, and Kyle tried not to let it show. They went out to the kitchen together, and Kyle shut the bedroom door behind him, wondering how the hell he was going to get rid of that dildo. His mind kept returning to it during dinner, and not only in the sense of making plans for its disposal. In the dim candlelight of the room the tone of the wood had seemed flesh-like, as if it would be warm to the touch. Even the salty pork was somehow arousing Kyle by the time the main course was served. He was humiliated by his own muddled desire, fidgeting with a kind of itchy impatience to be filled. He hadn't yet asked Stan to do it, and it didn't happen every night. Stan would simply roll him onto his stomach, rub his back a little, then reach for the ointment. While he was getting it, Kyle would squirm out of his pants and underwear under the blankets, spread his legs and press back needfully when Stan's slick fingers dug in between his cheeks. There was no further discussion about what they were doing: they were just doing it, and only according to Stan's whims, so far.

When the plates were cleared, Kyle was still fogged up in a cloud of sudden arousal. Though it really wasn't sudden: the sight of that hard, wooden cock had brought it on. He wondered if it was the sort of thing that could prove useful for them in bed, and quickly concluded that it would be cruel to ask Stan to use it on him, as if what Stan had to work with wasn't good enough. It would be cruel to even let him see the thing. And if Cartman had ever so much as laid a hand on it, Kyle didn't want it invading the sacred space where he and Stan had been hiding from the winter, the war, and everything else. He'd have to get rid of it, and it wouldn't be easy, with Stan spending ninety percent of his time in the bedroom. Stan followed him there after the meal and asked Kyle to help him take a bath.

"Anything interesting happen today?" Stan asked while Kyle washed his back, sitting outside the tub and wishing he was in it, sharing the steaming water with Stan.

"Hmm, no." Kyle would leave it to Wendy to broach the animal shelter idea, if it proved to be anything more then a pipe dream. "We made Jello. Oh, and I told Wendy to get in touch with Christophe about fixing the car. I mean - of course, he can't, you know, but. He could stand there overseeing things while I fix it."

"Yeah, I guess. Did you see Kenny again?"

"No. God knows where he's sleeping. I worry he'll freeze to death."

Stan pondered this for some moments in silence, or maybe he had other things on his mind. Kyle had a massively painful erection, the same one he'd been fighting off all throughout the meal. Touching Stan's skin as he washed him was making it throb, his balls so full that his underwear felt too tight.

"Do you think we'll be occupied?" Stan asked.

"What?" Kyle said, startled. "By Canada?"

"Yeah. They're coming, Kyle. They're close."

"I thought. Before, you and Jimbo-"

"I act happy for his benefit, sometimes. He's - the war means a lot to him. I can't bring myself to hate him for that. Kind of like you and your mom, I guess."

"I guess. Sometimes I hated her." Kyle felt badly for saying so. "But I know what you mean. And no, I. I can't imagine being occupied. I guess it's possible, but I never realistically let myself consider it."

"Maybe they'll just bomb the whole town to bits before that happens," Stan said, and Kyle's heart sunk. He sounded so ambivalent.

"I'm too turned on to talk about this," Kyle said, his lack of interest in continuing a discussion about occupation pushing him into finally making the first move. Stan turned to look at him from over his shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. From touching you, just. I love your skin so much."

He was aware that he sounded like an idiot, but it was better than confessing the real reason for his alarming arousal. Stan grinned.

"I love yours, too," he said. "It's so soft."

"Would you finger fuck me?" Kyle blurted, fighting off some offense at being described as 'soft,' because he knew that he was, generally. "Later, in bed? Tonight?"

"Sure," Stan said, and he reached for Kyle. They kissed, the rim of the bathtub between them, and Kyle moaned when Stan bit gently at his bottom lip. "Shhh," Stan said, whispering this against Kyle's mouth, and he thought he might come then and there, in his pants.

"I just-" Kyle said when they pulled apart, overcome with a rush of emotional and physical urges that he suddenly couldn't suppress. "I just want to be able to talk to you, and - about this, and-"

"Dude, you can," Stan said, gathering Kyle against him again. Stan still felt so strong, and Kyle often wanted to lick his arm muscles, right at the spot where his t-shirt sleeves ended. Kyle had caught Stan using the free weights that Jimbo got for him more than once in the past few weeks. "If you want something, like that or like - anything, just ask me," Stan said. "It makes me happy to think that I could give you anything."

"You do, though," Kyle said, and he closed his eyes, resting his face against Stan's cheek, which was damp from the steamy air. "Everything I like about my life is the stuff I do with you."

In bed that night, Stan worked two fingers in and fucked Kyle hard with them, until he was screaming against Stan's palm, which was pressed snugly over Kyle's mouth, as usual and at Kyle's request, to keep him relatively quiet. It was good, but Kyle couldn't stop thinking about that dildo, even as his ass ached from the new fullness of a second finger. Stan seemed much more pleased with himself than he usually did after Kyle had come, and Kyle theorized that it was because he had asked for it, as opposed to just quietly submitting to it. He should have known right away that Stan would prefer him to have agency, but he was always so afraid to ask for something that Stan wouldn't want to give, or, worse, something he couldn't give.

The following morning, while Stan was in the bathroom, Kyle relocated the dildo to the back of the room's small closet, where Marsh family board games from long ago were still stored, along with extra linens and dusty sporting equipment. He closed the closet very quietly, his heart pounding. The polished wood had felt good in his hand, pleasantly sensual. If Cartman had left him the thing as some kind of cruel joke about what Stan couldn't give him, his plot to upset them had failed entirely. The appearance of the dildo had invigorated what Kyle could now confidently call his sex life with Stan, and they began to heatedly fool around every night, usually with Stan's fingers inside Kyle, sometimes just with Kyle performing for Stan, touching himself while Stan watched with a burning, steely gaze that made Kyle feel eviscerated and dirty, a combination that excited him so much that he came harder than he ever had when he'd jerked off without an audience. Kyle wanted to try things on Stan, too, at least some nipple sucking, but he was afraid that Stan would hate experiencing that kind of pleasure without being able to get hard. They kissed a lot, anyway, and sometimes Kyle sucked on the tip of Stan's tongue. Once, this even resulted in a moan from Stan, who was almost always silent while Kyle's cock was hard.

Stan didn't need to know about the dildo in the closet, but Kyle didn't want to get rid of it entirely. It seemed like some kind of magic talisman, and sometimes, when Stan was out in the kitchen or the living room, Kyle would sneak into the closet and rub the polished wood, trying to imagine how anyone could ever fit such a thing inside them. It was about the size Stan's cock had been when it was hard, based on the tents pitched in Stan's boxers in the mornings after sleepovers, and it was uncircumcised like Stan's, thick like Stan's- Kyle had halfway convinced himself that such a thing of beauty couldn't have come from Cartman after all.

At the end of the month, Kyle was able to fix the car with Christophe's help, and he joined the rest of their makeshift family in lamenting the fact that it was "stolen" soon afterward.

"Somebody in the neighborhood must have seen you working on it," Jimbo said, shaking his head at the spot in the driveway that the Volvo had occupied. "Son of a bitch. Countryman stealing from countryman. That's the ugly side of war."

"Yeah," Kyle said, wanting to scoff at the idea that grand theft auto was war's true ugliness. Kenny had taken the car under cover of night, fetching the keys from the mailbox, where Kyle had left them for him. He'd been cleanly shaven and almost supernaturally clean when Kyle met up with him to make their final plans, down to his shining white teeth that again looked brand new. When Kyle asked where he'd been staying, Kenny had answered 'hell,' and he didn't laugh at Kyle's joke about wanting to visit that spa himself, since it seemed to have such rejuvenating powers. Kyle had stocked the car with the few rations they could spare, and a letter for Ike if Kenny found him. Kyle didn't really think that he would, but both he and Kenny needed the delusion that he would find their siblings hidden away in some safe corner of the city or the mountains.

Kyle had partly hoped that Wendy would let her plans for an animal shelter die, though he was also curious about what that sort of community involvement might do for Stan's spirits. Wendy being Wendy, she of course did not let the idea go, and by the start of the still-icy spring she had set up a proper non-profit LLC, with the help of Gerald, who had slowly but surely begun to leave the house again. Stan hadn't yet ventured farther than the backyard, but that was a start.

Kyle was surprised when Cartman agreed to fully fund Wendy's animal shelter venture, less so when he learned that it would be named the Leopold Stotch Memorial Animal Sanctuary. Kyle was impressed, even touched. Butters would have loved the gesture.

Cartman still refused to employ Stan when Wendy suggested it. Stan didn't know about the shelter yet, as Wendy wanted to approach him 'at the right time.' She seemed certain that she could convince Cartman to come around on Stan, and Kyle was just as certain that she wouldn't. He knew that only one person had a chance of changing Cartman's mind, and in the week before his nineteenth birthday, he steeled himself to get it over with. Stan's mood was improving, but he was still too depressed by the thought of leaving the house to even go to the mailbox in his wheelchair. Giving him a cause, and particularly one that bore Butters' name, was the best chance at reintegrating him into society. Kyle felt guilty about having dragged his feet on this partly because he liked the little pocket of non-society that he'd been hiding in with Stan so much. Wendy had acted selflessly in Stan's interests, and now Kyle would, too, even if it meant groveling to the last person he ever wanted to ask for a favor.

Kyle dressed in bulky clothes for his trip to the Cartman household, which was still the town brothel. Despite his success, Cartman continued to live with Liane and allow her to work as a madam. Kyle supposed she liked having something to do, and the whole enterprise was probably just as profitable as the many booths Cartman had taken over at the black market, if not more so. Kyle's stomach was a mess on the walk. He'd never been inside the Cartman brothel, but he'd heard plenty of stories. He'd told Stan that he was going to drop by the market before his shift, and he felt terrible for the lie, but Stan would never agree to work at a Cartman-funded animal shelter if he knew that Kyle had lowered himself to asking Cartman to employ him. Kyle supposed it wasn't entirely a lie, as the house he was headed toward was a market, technically, or in some macabre sense. He had his knife in his front coat pocket, and he touched it twice on the way there, double-checking.

Cartman's house had been dressed up to look enticing over the years, with neon signs in the windows and a fresh coat of lime green paint. It looked cleaner than Kyle remembered it from the last time he'd passed by, back in high school. It was in a cul-de-sac with three other houses that had been abandoned by their owners and were now heavily-guarded storehouses for the goods Cartman would eventually bring to market. There was a doorman at the brothel, a big guy with a blond ponytail and an ugly goatee.

"Here for service?" he asked as Kyle approached.

"No," Kyle said. "I need to speak to Cartman. To Eric, I mean."

"Are you Kyle?"

Kyle frowned; he didn't recognize this man at all.

"Yes," he said, not sure if he should admit as much.

"Mr. Cartman is expecting you. Go on in. He's upstairs in the attic room."

"Expecting me?" Kyle hadn't called ahead. "What?"

"He said if a red-headed kid named Kyle came by to let him in."

Kyle thought about leaving. Had Cartman actually anticipated that Kyle would come ask him about letting Stan work at the shelter when Wendy's efforts failed, or were these the guard's standing orders? He decided it was the former; Cartman knew him well enough to guess that he'd be just as desperate to help Stan as Wendy was, and Cartman had probably held out on her not just for the pleasure of denying Stan something but for the prospect of enticing Kyle into his lair. Of course Cartman was well aware that Kyle's back was against the wall. He touched the knife in his pocket as he headed inside.

He hadn't expected the sex sounds that emanated from behind closed doors to be so shameless, which was absurd. He supposed the men might be nervous and timid as they crept from their cars to the front door, but once inside there was no reason to pretend or exercise tact. He started to feel ill as he headed up the stairs to the second floor, which was wallpapered with a gaudy red and purple striped print. The lighting was dim, but Kyle could see the stairs at the end of the hallway. Wooden stairs, painted black: Cartman had relocated to the attic around his thirteenth birthday. Kyle hurried toward the stairs, wanting to escape the sex noises that clogged the hallway, and the smell of come and sweat, though he doubted it was much better up in Cartman's room. When he reached the staircase he started to climb, and he paused when he realized that some of the sex noises were coming from above, too. Maybe Cartman wasn't really expecting him, or at least not at this moment. He started to go back down, but something about the angry grunts and pained yelps he heard from above made him pause, and his heart began to race. Cartman had tried to assault him in Butters' room that night. How could Kyle know that he wasn't assaulting someone else right now? There was something about the whimpery sounds of the person who was up there with Cartman that was eerily familiar, and Kyle couldn't put his finger on it until he heard Cartman's grunts form an actual word.

"Butters! Ah, Butters, yeah, you - you little b-bitch, _nghhh_ \- take that dick-"

Kyle hurried up the stairs, horrified. If Kenny had reappeared, maybe Butters had, too. Maybe Cartman had forced Butters to fake his death, only to turn him into a sex slave.

It wasn't Butters who was underneath Cartman on the bed, though for one awful second Kyle thought that was what he was seeing. It was Tweek, skinny and splayed out, face down. His greasy blond hair had gotten long since Kyle had last seen him, and it mostly concealed his face, but that was undoubtedly him. Kyle was frozen, not sure what to do. Cartman was holding Tweek down while he fucked him, his hands pressed over Tweek's bony shoulders. Kyle opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and he could feel his whole body locking up the way it had that night, when Cartman was suddenly on top of him, pulling his pants down.

"Ey!"

Cartman was looking at him. He'd stopped moving his hips, but he was still inside Tweek, still holding him down. Tweek lifted his head from the mattress as Kyle's tunnel vision receded.

"He told me to come up," Kyle said. His voice sounded reedy and small. He tried to meet Tweek's eyes, but Tweek had hidden his face again. He was moaning, not in pleasure or pain but embarrassment.

"Get out!" Cartman roared. Kyle turned and fell down the attic stairs. His foot caught on the second rung and he howled in pain when he met the floor, his leg jerking backward at a bad angle. He could hear Cartman hissing some orders at Tweek.

"Okay, Jesus!" Tweek said. He sounded more annoyed than scared. Kyle hadn't seen him in months; he'd actually managed to forget that Tweek wasn't dead. His ankle hurt when he crawled to his feet to try to walk, and he hissed in pain as some john opened one of the doors at the end of the hall and glared out at him.

"What the hell?" the guy said. Kyle had seen him at the market, but he didn't know his name. He'd sold homemade bullets and other metal products before Cartman bought him out. He cursed at Kyle's rudeness and disappeared back into the room, which had once been Cartman's childhood bedroom. Kyle could hear Cartman's heavy footsteps, the attic stairs creaking under his weight.

"Kyle!" Cartman shouted when Kyle tried to hurry down the stairs to the first floor, the pain in his ankle slowing him down. "Get back here!" Cartman said, and the sound of his voice propelled Kyle to move faster.

He made it to the front yard, barreling past the security guard, but landed hard on the icy front walk and crumpled to the ground in pain. Cartman caught up with him then, and Kyle could smell the awful sex-reek of him. He was wearing a red robe and black slippers. When he knelt down to Kyle's level, the robe opening as his knees did, Kyle scrambled backward into the dirty snow that lined the walkway. He thought of his knife, but couldn't make his hands work.

"Tell anyone about what you heard and I will personally slit your throat," Cartman said, gritting the words out in a low volume. The guard was watching curiously but keeping his distance.

"What - what?" Kyle was dizzy, his ankle throbbing. "What the eff? You and Tweek? And you said, you were saying-"

"I will kill you, Kyle," Cartman said. His face was bright red. "You do not repeat this to anyone. Especially not mother-effing Stan."

"Fine," Kyle said, trying to ignore the pain in his ankle. He got up onto his feet, wincing, and brushed the snow from his pants. Cartman rose, too, slowly. "I'll keep it to myself if you agree to let Stan work at the shelter. That's all – that's the only reason I came. Jesus, Cartman, what would it cost you? We've all been through a lot. Move the eff on."

Cartman was quiet for a while. It was cold outside, breezy, but Cartman seemed unfazed as his rope flapped around him. He had the sash tied, but one strong wind and Kyle would be scarred for life. He supposed he already was, from seeing Cartman's fat-dippled ass clench with every thrust into Tweek.

"Fine," Cartman said. "Let the cripple clean the cages at my shelter, what do I care? But if his useless shell of a body gets in the way of doing his duties, I'm canning him. And he'd better not expect to be paid."

"Of course not," Kyle said. "It's a volunteer position, it's- thank you."

He'd prepared this, a carefully placed _thank you_ , which he'd never expected to follow a mutual favor, a promise that he wouldn't blackmail Cartman with what he'd seen in the attic. Cartman was still red-faced, and he was beginning to shiver from the cold.

"Did you enjoy my gift?" Cartman said when Kyle turned to go, tired of being stared at. It took him a moment to realize what Cartman was talking about, and when he did he stopped walking but didn't turn around. Cartman laughed. "I figured it was the least I could do."

"At least I'm not paying a desperate former friend for sex and calling him by someone else's name," Kyle said, and when he walked away with as much dignity as possible, stumbling through the snow, his ankle hurting badly, he fully expected what came next: snow balls, thrown by Cartman, expertly pegging him in the back of the head and between his shoulders. Kyle was proud of himself for not falling over as he continued to walk away, refusing to acknowledge the attack. Cartman's throwing arm wasn't what it used to be.

It seemed to take five times as long to walk home as it had to trudge through the half-melted snow toward the brothel. Kyle was biting his lip hard by the time he came within sight of the Marsh household, forcing himself not to cry from the pain. He kept reminding himself that he had the privilege of feeling it, whereas Stan could only wish to. All the way home, he'd been thinking about what he'd seen, the reckless plunge of Cartman's body into Tweek's. Kyle would never have that from Stan – never, ever, to the point that he was fantasizing about a wooden dildo and secreting it away behind a stack of old board games. Now, even with confirmation that the thing had come from Cartman, he hated the idea of tossing it into the fireplace at last.

He fell against the front door and banged on it with both fists. Gerald answered, and Stan was quick to wheel himself into the living room when he heard Kyle's cries. Kyle told them that he'd slipped on the way back from the market. It wasn't an outlandish story, considering the time of year and the wildly varying slickness of the ice on the roads, and Kyle confessed that he'd selfishly gone there to purchase a birthday cake for himself, only to see it smashed and ruined on the ice when he fell.

That was how his victory felt: the fact that Cartman had agreed at last to let Stan tend to the homeless pets in the Leopold Stotch Memorial shelter was like a ruined birthday cake, something sweet that was made dirty, the kind of thing that could only be plucked off the muck of the sidewalk in filthy handfuls. A doctor who Kyle worked with at the Red Cross came to examine his sprain and gave him painkillers after wrapping the ankle. Kyle was normally so opposed to losing control that he hated to even sip from Stan's beers at the end of his work days, but he gulped the pills down greedily, wanting to disappear for a while. He was helped to bed by Jimbo, and he groped for Stan when the others were gone, needing him more than ever.

"Wendy's a genius," Kyle murmured, feeling drunk. His cheek was resting against Stan's chest, and he had his eyes closed. He was completely finished with the day, awake or not.

"Yeah?" Stan said, and he stroked Kyle's hair.

"Mmm, she. Does the Leopold Stotch Memorial Animal Shelter sound like a good idea to you?"

"Oh, that's – Wendy wants to do that?"

"Did it! Already. Amazing girl, that Wendy."

Stan said nothing. His hand paused in Kyle's hair for a moment, then he resumed his gentle stroking.

"Although," Kyle said, and he could hear the slur in his voice, but he didn't care. "She's willing to sell, um, certain things, to the devil. 'Cause she funded it through Cartman."

"Funded—?"

"The shelter, Stan. It's a thing. And you're gonna work there. If you want."

Kyle fell asleep after making this announcement. When Stan roused him, Kyle had some vague suspicions about what their conversation would entail: a protest about Kyle and Wendy's efforts to get Stan out of the house, a confrontation about the hidden dildo, or maybe just a suggestion that Kyle get up and take a piss before he really settled in for sleep. Stan was crying; someone else was in the room.

"Dude," Stan said, and he inhaled powerfully, drawing his wrist across his eyes to clear them. Kyle woke enough to sit up and recognize Jimbo in the doorway, Ned hovering behind him.

"Who?" Kyle asked, because someone else was dead, probably his brother. Stan took him by the shoulders and turned him so that they were face to face.

"They did it," Stan said. "Canada – America – there was a treaty. It's done. The war is over."

Kyle stared at Stan, blinking, waiting for it to feel real. It wasn't that he had trouble imagining a treaty between Canada and America; that was a long time coming, and a much better option than occupation. It was the rest, his inability to believe that all that had happened had ended.

He was barely awake, high on painkillers, but still alert enough to know that South Park's personal hell was long from over. The end at the front would come late to them, and too late for some.


	8. Chapter 8

In the weeks that followed, Kyle felt as if the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for the end of the war to feel like a flipped switch. He knew that there would be no immediate reversal of fortunes for anyone, but at moments he caught himself expecting changes to come just by virtue of the treaty being signed: Ike would come home, the black market would shut down and the stores on main street would reopen, and Stan would walk again. None of this happened, but one small miracle did. Stan agreed to attend the grand opening party for the Leopold Stotch Memorial Animal Sanctuary.

"This is a belated birthday present to you," Stan said while they were getting ready. "That's all."

"I'll take it," Kyle said. He just hoped Cartman wouldn't be in attendance, though he was likely to be. Kyle tried to be glad that he had something to hold over Cartman's head, for once, but the memory of watching him pound into Tweek didn't feel like a blessing. His mind kept returning to it in the same way he'd initially been fascinated by the wooden dildo. The sight of Cartman on top of Tweek hadn't been arousing at all - it was deeply upsetting, if anything - but Kyle's mind had snagged on the sounds they had made, both orally and bodily, and he found himself somewhat regretting that he hadn't had an actual dick-going-into-ass visual from where he'd been standing, since he would never experience that himself, or even see it depicted in porn. Gay porn was very hard to come by, as Kyle understood it, and impossible to get in his case, since Cartman was the only vendor in South Park who sold pornography. It would be a cold day in hell indeed if Kyle ever lowered himself to asking to browse Cartman's gay porn selection.

"Hey," Stan was saying, and Kyle looked up from his tie, which still wasn't knotted. "Did you hear me?"

"No - sorry, I was zoning out."

"I was asking if you think Clyde will be at this thing," Stan said.

"Probably," Kyle said. "I'm sure Wendy's roped Bebe into coming, and she's joined at the hip with Clyde. Why?"

"I just hate that guy," Stan said. He wheeled himself toward the door that led into the kitchen and stopped, his back to Kyle. "Fuck," he said, and the way he jolted in his chair when the chip fired tore at Kyle's heart. Stan leaned down to put his hands over his face, elbows on his knees. "Kyle, I. I don't want people to see me like this."

"They've seen you already," Kyle said, and he wanted to kick himself for saying something so dumb in response to Stan's painful admission, but it was true. "At Butters' bedside. Dude, I know, but you can't stay in this room forever. And anyway, you look great. You're really handsome." Kyle was desperate to get some reaction from Stan other than slumped shoulders and hands over his face, and the comment about Stan's handsomeness finally did it. Stan turned to him and frowned. "Sorry," Kyle said. "But you are."

"How long have you thought so?" Stan asked. He didn't sound angry.

"Always," Kyle said, wanting to look away. It was worth humiliating himself if he could distract Stan from his own embarrassment long enough to get him out the door. Stan held his gaze in a pitying way that made Kyle mad. "Is that so surprising?" he asked, taking the handles on Stan's chair.

"No, I-"

"Open the door, please," Kyle said. Stan did so, and he allowed Kyle to push him until they'd reached the lobby. Gerald was just coming in from one of his walks. He'd begun taking them daily since the weather had improved.

"You boys are looking dapper," he said, and Kyle wanted to tell him to shut up, still smarting from having been backed into a confession about how much he loved the way Stan looked. "Where are you off to?" Gerald asked, casually, as if Stan left the house all the time.

"Wendy's doing a party for the opening of the animal shelter," Kyle said. "To raise money, and awareness, I guess. Would you like me to make a donation in your name?"

"Here you go," Gerald said, and he dug a ten dollar bill out of his wallet. "Do you need help, um. With the car?"

He meant about getting Stan into the car. Kyle wasn't sure that he wouldn't need help, but he shook his head anyway, and hurried Stan out into the fading daylight. It was six o'clock in the evening, the first week of June, warm and pleasantly breezy. Kyle wheeled Stan over to the passenger side of Wendy's car, which he'd borrowed for the occasion. Getting Stan up into Jimbo's pick up would have been too much of an ordeal.

"Jesus," Stan muttered as Kyle helped him into the passenger seat. It wasn't a smooth transition, but it worked. "I haven't been in here in a long time," Stan said. He pulled down the passenger side visor and opened the little mirror on it. "Smells the same."

Kyle was still feeling wounded, and he had nothing to add to Stan's reminiscence about his time spent in Wendy's car. He was sure they had fucked in the backseat at least a couple of times, and he wondered if that was part of the smell Stan recognized. He folded up the wheelchair and put it in the trunk, telling himself to get over it. This was a good thing: Stan was going to the party even though he knew he would have to see Wendy there. That was nothing more or less than progress for Stan.

Progress toward what? Kyle wondered, and he stood at the back of the car for a few miserable moments. The neighbors across the street had put out their garbage cans. Did they seriously think that the treaty meant that curbside trash pickups would resume?

They were mostly quiet on the drive to the shelter, which had been set up in a one-story house not far from the brothel. Kyle was anxious about what Stan was feeling, but he knew better than to pressure him to talk about it. They parked in the driveway, as Kyle had discussed with Wendy. The street was lined with the cars of other attendees, and Kyle could hear the music as he climbed out of the car. It took him a moment to recall when he'd last been to a party: Butters' party for the departing soldiers. Remembering that night dampened his already grim mood, and he hurried to get the wheelchair.

"Did we really have to do this in sight of the house?" Stan snapped when Kyle opened the passenger side door.

"I just thought-" Kyle said, taking the fall for Wendy's plan. "It's closer, so we wouldn't have to go as far-"

"Handicapped parking, right," Stan said, and he put his hand out so Kyle could help him into the chair. It was an easier transition than getting into the car had been, but they were both flushed and avoiding each other's eyes as guests who were streaming into the house passed by.

"Wendy got a live band," Kyle said as he followed Stan to the door, not daring to try to push him now. Wendy had installed a ramp at the front entrance, of course.

"We're only putting in an appearance," Stan said, and then the front door opened. Wendy was there, smiling, looking radiant but nervous. Kyle hadn't seen her with her hair down in a long time, and she'd put on a dress, something small and black that Kyle recognized from various funerals. She had cheered it up with a necklace of fat coral beads. Stan paused at the foot of the ramp and stared up at her. Kyle was behind him; he couldn't see Stan's expression.

"I'm so glad you came," Wendy said. "It's been, it's - your support means a lot, really."

"Well," Stan said, and a very awkward pause followed. "Thanks, uh. For doing this. It's a good thing. How are you?"

"I'm okay," Wendy said, and for a moment Kyle was sure that she would burst into tears, but she waved it off and smiled. "Come in, please, have a look around. We've got fifty animals in residence already."

"Wow," Stan said, and he wheeled himself up the ramp. Kyle followed, and Wendy squeezed his arm as he came into the front lobby, which was narrow and freshly painted, sky blue.

"Thanks," Wendy whispered as Stan headed into the reception area to the left, where several bird cages had been temporarily placed.

"It's - yeah." Kyle smiled uncomfortably and followed Stan. He hoped Wendy would give Stan a moment to absorb the rest of the atmosphere, and was grateful to her when she remained at the door, greeting the next incoming guests.

"Where'd they get the birds?" Stan asked when Kyle caught up with him, a red Macaw staring out at them dolefully. The other cage in the reception area held three twittering parakeets.

"I guess people gave them up," Kyle said. "I haven't seen a parakeet since I was eight."

"I hear dogs," Stan said, wheeling himself around, and they went to go look for them. The party was crowded and space was limited, but everyone jumped out of the way of Stan's chair as if it was a fireball headed their way. He didn't greet anyone, and pretended not to hear a few hellos that were called out as he made his way toward the dogs. Kyle did the same, in solidarity, and also because he didn't really want to talk to these people, either. He made an exception for Christophe, who was in the first kennel room that they visited.

"Seems insane to me," Christophe said. He had at last received a second prosthetic hand, which was more like a simple clamp than his other, finger-simulating device. He was holding a plate with crackers and cheese with the clamp and bringing the crackers to his mouth rather expertly with his other prosthetic. "Taking care of animals in luxury while people continue to starve."

"The church takes care of starving people," Kyle said.

"To hell with people, anyway," Stan said. He was letting a puppy lick his fingers. The cages lined the wall, stacked on top of each other, smelling of fresh lumber and, more vaguely, of urine: sixteen cages per room. The cat room was at the back the house.

"I tend to agree," Christophe said. "But there's still something a bit indulgent about this whole venture."

"Would you shut up?" Kyle said, as kindly as he could. Christophe smirked at him. He always liked it when he could make Kyle drop his polite act. Gregory strolled in holding a clear plastic cup of what looked like juice.

"Ah, you came!" he said, at an obnoxious volume. Christophe muttered something in French, and Gregory gave him a look. "I'm glad," he said, more quietly. "Are you thinking of adopting one?" he asked, striding over to Stan.

"Nah," Stan said. "I'd feel bad. They're all so - I wouldn't be able to pick just one."

"Then your other option is to come and see them all everyday," Gregory said, rather smoothly; Kyle was impressed. "Wendy is looking for volunteers to run the place."

"I know," Stan said. "Kyle told me."

"Oh. Then, have you considered it?"

"We'll see," Stan said, and he wheeled himself into the next dog-filled room. Gregory looked at Kyle and winked. Kyle felt badly for snarling at him a little in return.

"Keep it in your pants for a few minutes, eh?" Christophe said, muttering this low once Stan was in the next room.

"Keep what in my pants?" Gregory said, and he looked so horrified that Kyle laughed.

"Just don't press him right away," Kyle said, quietly. "Is what he means."

"You know," Gregory said, in a tone that made Kyle brace himself for some annoying statement. "I tend to agree with Wendy that too much coddling doesn't do any good. There's nothing wrong with a friendly push now and then."

Kyle was pretty sure he was right, but he didn't want to admit it, so he walked into the other room and joined Stan at the second set of cages. He'd found a sad-looking wiener dog and was stroking its head through the bars of the cage.

"Jesus," Stan said, and Kyle saw that his eyes were watering, though he wasn't crying exactly. "I forgot what this is like."

"Petting a dog?"

"No - yes. Just, anything. Doing things."

"Ah." Kyle tried not to be insulted, but he was. Apparently the 'things' Stan had done in bed with Kyle weren't important enough to count. "I want to see the cats," he said. He'd always preferred them, secretly. He didn't want to admit this to Stan, because it seemed womanly or something.

"Go ahead," Stan said. "You don't have to babysit me."

"I know that," Kyle said, annoyed, but when he left the room he felt newly anxious, as if Stan was too unguarded without him, especially if he was getting emotional over wiener dogs. Kyle peeked into the backyard on his way to the cat room. The band was set up out there, playing mellow fund raiser jazz, and there was a table with food and drinks. It was getting cooler as the sun went down, but most people were migrating outside. Kyle was glad to have privacy with the cats, at least until he got there and saw Cartman sitting on a throne-like armchair, stroking a fluffy white Persian cat that was dozing in his lap.

"Jew," he said in greeting, mildly enough not to get zapped by his v-chip. "How's it hanging? Couldn't drag Stan out of his cave after all?"

"He's here," Kyle said. "He's looking at the dogs." Kyle went to the cat cages, pretending to be bored by Cartman's presence. In actuality his heart was pounding, and he was again hearing the wet slap of Cartman's skin against Tweek's - his balls, maybe? - and the way he'd moaned Butters' name as if he believed that was who he was really inside. "This is a good thing you did," Kyle said, poking his finger into a cage to let a fuzzy gray kitten sniff it. "Butters would be-"

"Don't say his fucking name to me," Cartman said, sneering. His face was red, and rapidly getting redder. "Ever. You hear me? Or I'll ban your dickless boyfriend from this place."

"Fine," Kyle said, glaring at him. "I take back what I said, anyway. He'd be furious if he heard you talking about Stan that way. And sad, and disappointed."

"Butters loved everyone," Cartman said. "He was a real idiot that way."

"Yeah? Clearly, since he made the mistake of loving you. How can you betray him like that? Saying he's an idiot while you sit in the memorial you built for him?"

"The name was Wendy's idea." Cartman was still red, and he was stroking the cat as if its presence was the only thing keeping him from jumping out of the chair and punching Kyle in the face. "And I'm mostly doing this as a tax shelter. God knows what the effing Canadians are going try to do to successful business owners such as myself."

"Whatever," Kyle said, willing to let him pretend, though it still annoyed him that Cartman thought it was worth the effort, when Kyle had heard him screaming Butters' name at the height of his disgusting passion. "Just remember our agreement. I've kept up my end of the bargain."

He was glad that he'd said so very quietly, because Stan wheeled into the room soon afterward. He frowned when he saw Cartman and Kyle.

"Nice place," Stan said, surveying the room, which was strewn with cat toys and lined with sofas.

"Yes, well," Cartman said, puffing up. "Some of us can afford nice things."

"I couldn't effing believe it when Kyle told me you'd paid for this," Stan said. "Trying to convince people you've changed?" He glanced at Kyle, who scoffed, offended.

"Why don't you wheel yourself out back and have some of the refreshments I paid for?" Cartman said. The redness had drained from his face, and he was smiling cruelly at the sight of Stan in his chair. "It's the least I can do for the needy."

"Please," Stan said. "I haven't forgotten that my mom used to make you and your mom casseroles so Liane wouldn't have to service ten johns a day to feed you."

"Hey!" Kyle said, shouting, before Cartman could. If Stan pissed Cartman off, he would be banned from the shelter, and Kyle had only needed to see him tearing up over a dog to know that working here would be the best thing for him. "Don't - ah. Don't fight."

"Listen to your Jew nurse, Stanley," Cartman said. "You're a guest here, after all. I'm your effing host. What's become of your manners?"

"Cartman, just shut the hell up," Kyle hissed, and he waved Stan out of the room. Kyle was surprised that he went willingly, especially considering the look Stan had given him before he spun his wheelchair around.

"What is wrong with you?" Stan asked when they were in the kitchen, which had been transformed into a surgery room with steel countertops. Perhaps because of the unpleasantly sterile surroundings, no one was lingering in the room, which led out to the patio and backyard.

"Huh?" Kyle said.

"What were you doing alone in a room with Cartman? Telling me not to fight with him? Have you forgotten-"

"Of course I haven't," Kyle said, tired of being bullied. Stan had been on him since they got in the car. "And I could live without your constant effing reminders about it."

"Constant? Right, I really bring it up all the time."

"You kind of do, any time he comes up! He's just a sad tub of lard, Stan. You're the one who always used to tell me not to let him get to me. Ignore him. He's an unfortunate - minor detail about this place, that's all. He won't be here much, trust me."

"Why are you so bent on me working here?" Stan asked.

"I just thought you might like it, God! Why are you being so effing mean to me?" It was a cruel question, because Kyle knew the answer: Stan was incredibly uncomfortable, feeling cornered and stared at, and he was taking it out on the person who was closest to him. Stan took a deep breath and shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just really don't want you to be alone with Cartman. Ever."

"Not a problem! I don't want that, either! He just happened to be there, and it's not like he's - it's not going to happen again, okay? Relax."

Despite his irritation, there was a small part of Kyle that was pleased that Stan had gotten so upset. He knew Stan was frantic about this only because he cared so much, and because he'd been as traumatized as Kyle by what had happened that night at Butters' party. They went out in the backyard together in silence, and Kyle was relieved - though not surprised - that Wendy had installed a ramp out onto the patio as well. Kyle suspected that Stan would avoid the refreshments table, after what Cartman had said, and his prediction was correct. He stared longingly at the crackers and cookies, wondering if it would be offensive to Stan if he ate something himself.

"So, what do you think?" Wendy said when she made her way over to them. Kyle wondered if he should leave. He realized that he was holding the left handle of Stan's chair possessively, and he didn't release it.

"It's really nice," Stan said. "Good job putting some of that a-hole's money to good use."

Wendy laughed nervously and looked at Kyle, who shrugged. There was no point in trying to hide that Cartman had funded the place. Kyle had known that Cartman would boast about it as soon as he and Stan crossed paths.

"We'd love to have your help here, if you're interested," Wendy said.

"Yeah, I know," Stan said. "It's all anybody can talk about." He seemed to hear the bitterness in his voice, and he smiled apologetically. "I'd love to help out," he said, and the relief Kyle felt was short-lived.

"Oh, great!" Wendy said. "And it'll be great to, you know. Catch up, too, me and you. I've really missed hanging out with you."

"It's so crazy just to see you," Stan said, and Kyle went from wondering if he should leave to knowing that he should, to preserve his own sanity if nothing else. Wendy and Stan were staring at each other, both smiling vaguely. "You look great," Stan said.

"Pff, really? Well, so do you. I mean it."

"Sure, yeah," Stan said. He looked down at his knees and patted the arms of the chair with his palms. Kyle braced himself, waiting to hear something cynical and dark. "I like the music," Stan said instead. Relieved, and also a bit crushed, Kyle wandered off to give them some time together.

He found Clyde and Bebe and spent some time talking to them. They were both in full dress uniform, peppy as usual, and Kyle was quickly disgusted by their shared happy glow. He wondered if they'd had sex before the party. They both had a freshly pleasured look about them.

"Where's Craig?" Kyle asked. "I haven't seen him since winter ended."

Bebe and Clyde exchanged a telling look. Kyle noticed that she had a single barrette in her hair, lavender with silver stripes. Probably a gift from Clyde.

"Craig took the end of the war really hard," Clyde said. "You know, we're basically agreeing to Canadian leadership. And he lost, um-"

"His eye," Bebe said. "How's Stan on that front? He looks okay," she said, craning her neck. Kyle turned to see what she was looking at: Stan and Wendy, laughing together. He didn't appreciate the sympathetic look Bebe was giving him when he turned back to her.

"Stan's pretty angry sometimes, but in a more general way," Kyle said. "He's going to work here, though, with the animals."

"Oh, terrific!" Clyde said.

"That's perfect," Bebe agreed.

"Yeah," Kyle said. "I gotta, um. I see someone I need to say hi to. Excuse me."

He wandered around hoping to lay eyes on someone he knew quickly, and was glad to find Christophe smoking on the patio. He offered Kyle a cigarette.

"You know I don't smoke," Kyle said.

"It's never too late to start," Christophe said. "Good to see him like this, huh?" He gestured to Stan with his clamp hand.

"Yeah," Kyle said. "Although. I mean, it kinda makes me feel like crap. Because I couldn't make him happy, and here he is, less than an hour outside of the house and he's laughing and acting normal."

Kyle hadn't meant to say that much. He glanced over at Christophe, who was studying him, the cigarette half-raised toward his lips.

"That's what this is, though, my friend," Christophe said. "An act, for Wendy. Stan is kind to smile for her."

"No, he's. He's not that kind, actually, not enough to fake it." But then again, maybe he was, for her. Just not for Kyle, who wouldn't have wanted forced smiles from Stan anyway. "I think he's really happy to see her."

"It can't be easy," Christophe said. "Looking up at her from that chair. Both of them thinking about why things have changed." He muttered a curse in French.

"I'm worried about Craig," Kyle said, desperate to change the subject. "Have you seen him recently?"

"Only at the market," Christophe said. "He's surly to me there. To everyone, I think. Yes, me too. I am also worried."

"Really?"

"Why do you look so surprised? He's a fellow veteran, obviously suffering. Doesn't take much to guess why." He nodded toward Bebe and Clyde, who were near the band, swaying together in a lazy slow dance.

"Yeah, I figured as much," Kyle said. "Shit - _ah_."

"Does Stan still want to get his chip out?" Christophe asked when Kyle had recovered from the shock.

"I don't know," Kyle said, mumbling. He suddenly felt very tired, and he wanted to leave, to crawl back into that bed with Stan, though he was afraid it would feel very different now, already. "He hasn't brought it up lately."

"You should let him do it if he wants to. It's a bigger comfort to us angry fucks than you'd expect."

"Like I'm not angry?" Kyle said, suddenly furious. He regretted his words immediately; Christophe had lost his fucking _hands_. "And anyway, he doesn't need my permission."

"You're very hard-headed if you believe that," Christophe said, and he stalked off - angrily.

Kyle and Stan left the party an hour later, at Stan's request. Wendy walked them to the car, making plans for Stan's first shift. He would come in the morning; Jimbo would drive him. Kyle would be on shift, too, at the Red Cross.

"I'm looking forward to it," Stan said as Kyle opened the passenger side door. He made a subtle shooing motion so that Wendy wouldn't stick around to witness Stan's awkward transition from chair to car. She caught on and said goodnight, hurrying into the house.

"So," Kyle said when they were driving, Stan silent in the seat beside him. "That wasn't so bad, right?"

"It was fine," Stan said. "And dude, look. I'm sorry I was being such an a-hole earlier. I was just tense. You know, I. I hate it when I catch myself taking that kind of stuff out on you."

"It's okay."

"It's not okay, Kyle. I'm glad you yelled at me. I wish you'd yell at me more often."

Kyle was further wounded by this, because he interpreted it as Stan's request to tell him to stop when he reached over at night to bury his fingers between Kyle's always-waiting ass cheeks.

"I don't enjoy yelling at you," Kyle said tightly, feeling like a slut.

"I know, dude, but you should, if you need to."

Things were awkward between them that night, as Kyle had expected. They no longer needed to huddle together for warmth, though the nights were still cool. The blankets provided enough heat, and Kyle wasn't sure if it was just him, but he suspected that Stan also felt overly aware that cuddling was a choice and not a necessity at this point. Kyle felt like he was always the one bridging the gap between them, unless Stan was reaching for his ass.

"Tweek is a prostitute," Kyle blurted when Stan reached for him that night, feeling his way down over Kyle's cock, giving it little squeezes as he went.

"Oh?" Stan left his hand on Kyle's crotch. "Wait - what? Tweek? From school?"

"No, Tweek from the evening news. Yes, Tweek, that Tweek. He's working at the brothel. Cartman pays him to -" He stopped short of spilling the entire secret, afraid of spoiling Stan's chances of working at the shelter. "For sex. With men, I guess."

"Are you serious?" Stan sat up. "That's effed up. That's horrible. His parents are gone - he has no choice. Effing Cartman. How'd you find out?"

"Clyde told me." Stan never talked to Clyde, so this lie seemed safe.

"Jesus. This isn't right. Someone has to do something."

"Yeah? Like what? He used to work at the black market, at Cartman's booth, but I guess he wasn't making enough. Maybe he likes it."

"Likes - what, getting screwed for money? Uh, I doubt it."

"Why? It's impossible to like gross sex? Some people do."

Stan went silent, and Kyle felt like a complete idiot. He'd just taken a torch to the careful trust they'd built up under the blankets over the past three months.

"It's not-" Stan started, but then he didn't seem to know how to continue. "Are you still hard?" he asked. His voice was low, with a hint of aggression. Kyle's thighs twitched.

"Yes," he said, shame and arousal mixing potently, making him flush all over.

"Mhm," Stan said, or didn't say. He slid his hand over Kyle's thigh, pressing it snugly along the length of his cock. "Yeah, you are," he said, squeezing. Kyle's legs opened more widely, his eyes drifting shut. "You're really hard."

"Well. It's not that I don't feel bad for Tweek. I'm just. You know how I am." He stopped short of saying something like, _You know I'm your slut, your whore, and you don't even have to pay me_. He still fantasized daily about sucking on Stan's soft cock. It would be squishy and warm on his tongue, it would fill his whole mouth. Kyle had imagined drifting to sleep while sucking on it, infant-like, maybe with that wooden dildo stuffed up his ass so deep that he'd have to breathe through his nose in shallow huffs, too full. He was a sick man, he knew. He opened his eyes and startled a little when he saw the way that Stan was looking at him, as if he could read Kyle's thoughts. Stan was smiling, anyway, wickedly.

"Get up on your hands and knees," Stan said. "I want to try something."

"What-" Kyle said, or started to say, and then he thought, fuck it. Stan still wanted him, on his hands and knees or not. Kyle had been worried all night that Wendy's little black dress and creamy white legs would have ruined this for Stan for good. Kyle supposed, as he assumed the position Stan had requested, that he had creamy white legs himself. It was just that his were covered in ginger leg hair.

"No, not like that," Stan said, pulling himself over to sit beside Kyle. "Take off all your clothes."

"I'm not wearing many clothes," Kyle said, embarrassed but still curious. He pulled off his t-shirt, then his boxer shorts. "Should I point my butt toward you?" he asked, sitting on his knees.

"No, face the fireplace. Yeah, like that." Stan's hand skimmed over Kyle's back, down along his perfectly functional spine. Kyle shivered and moaned softly, letting his head fall down between his arms. He felt extremely exposed, which was probably the idea. The whole day had been weird; maybe they both needed this. He glanced at the window to double-check that the curtains were closed, and he scooted his knees apart more widely when Stan nudged them open. "Damn," Stan said, as if impressed, his hand sliding over Kyle's backside, down his thigh, then up again to cup his balls. Kyle groaned and shuddered. He wished Stan was naked, too. His dark pubes and the trail of hair up to his belly button made him look like such a _man_ , and his arms were so beautiful that Kyle could cry.

"What's that?" Kyle asked, turning when Stan reached for an empty glass on the bedside table, a tumbler that he'd drank a small amount of whiskey from before they turned out the lights. Stan didn't answer, just put the glass on the bed under Kyle, directly beneath the tip of his hard dick, which bumped the rim.

"I'm gonna, like," Stan said, and Kyle could hear him swallow. "Milk you. Okay?"

"Jesus," Kyle breathed out, and he flinched when his cockhead touched the glass again. "Yeah, um. Yeah."

Stan put his hand on the small of Kyle's back, grasping his cock with his other hand. Kyle made his posture as rigid as he could, his ass flexing wantingly. It would be perfect, Kyle thought, if Stan slid a finger in while he stroked him slow like this, down toward the glass. He was afraid to make a request, because it didn't seem to fit with the game, if that's what this was. Stan was rubbing Kyle's back in short brushes of his thumb, as if soothing him into giving up the load that was quickly becoming very heavy in his balls. Kyle forced his orgasm back by wondering if Stan would make him drink the come once it had landed in the glass. Kyle wasn't as into eating his own come as Stan was into feeding it to him.

"You're shaking," Stan said, still stroking Kyle slowly in both spots, the hand on his cock just a fraction too slow and loose to get him off. Kyle groaned powerfully when the hand on his back dipped down to tease the cleft of his ass. "Shhh," Stan said. "If you want to make some noise you have to - curse. Yeah. You have to give yourself a little shock."

"Ngh," Kyle said, already breaking the rule. Stan pinched his ass in response.

"Use your words, Kyle. Your bad words."

"Fuck," Kyle said, whispering, afraid. The shock went right to his balls, a jolt of pleasure following the pain, and he swallowed down another groan, remembering Stan's rule. "Fuck my ass," he said, and he trembled all over from the chip's back-to-back blows. Sometimes he could say so without tripping the censors, because he was using the word 'fuck' as a practical verb, making a humble request. Now, it felt different. "With your finger. I want it up my ass - _ungh_." This shock was mellower, and it felt good almost from the start, tingling up Kyle's spine.

"Well, alright," Stan said, indulgently. Kyle could tell he was enjoying this. It was an immense relief. "Arch your back, show me where you want to be filled. Yeah, good. I'll get your cream."

That was how they referred to it: Kyle's cream. He shuddered again, as if he'd said another dirty word. The smell of the ointment made his balls throb as Stan spread it on his finger. Pre-come was already dribbling from the end of his cock and pooling in the glass. He didn't dare touch himself, didn't even want to. He wanted Stan's to be the only hands available.

"Relax," Stan commanded, and only then did Kyle realize how tense his shoulders had become. He tried to do as instructed, still breathing harshly. Stan took hold of Kyle's cock, gripping more firmly now, his hand keeping still there as he probed at Kyle's hole. "Remember," Stan said, "If you need to make a sound, it had better be a curse word."

"Fuhhh," Kyle said as Stan's finger slid in, and it was enough to trip his censor. His ass clenched so violently as the shock tore through him that he was afraid he would do harm to Stan's finger. "Stan, I'm gonna. Come, gonna come-"

"Not yet," Stan said, and he gave Kyle's cock an admonishing squeeze. "Not until I'm all the way in." His finger felt impossibly long, possibly because Kyle was tightened up in the aftermath of all the shocks, still clenching in pulses. He let out a choppy sigh in lieu of a moan.

"Rub it," Kyle cried when Stan teased gently against his prostate. "Puh - please, Stan, I need-"

"Shh, hey. Curse words only."

"Motherfucker!" Kyle said, directing this at Stan, teetering so close to the edge of his orgasm that he _meant_ it, and the shock it sent through him blanked his brain and made him buck back onto Stan's finger, which was suddenly rubbing him just right while his other hand pumped Kyle's cock. Kyle came with a broken shout, still electrified, differently now, snapping his hips back with involuntary greed, fucking himself on Stan's finger until he was spent. He had come into the glass, mostly, and all over the sides. He tried to flop onto the mattress, but Stan wouldn't let him.

"Stay up," he said, his finger still inside Kyle. "You're gonna fill the whole glass."

Kyle sobbed but obeyed, his limbs shaking terribly. He felt like his life force was being stolen, and he wanted to give it up, to give this over to Stan, a temporary cure. He dropped down onto his elbows and put his head against the blankets, panting, his ass still lifted. Stan was petting his back again, still working his prostate in teasing swipes, letting Kyle's cock dangle for the few brief moments it took him to start to get hard again. He hissed when Stan wrapped his hand around it, still sensitive.

"Quiet," Stan said. "I'll say when you've had enough."

They'd made up a safe word around the time Stan had started giving Kyle masturbation instructions: banana. A true symbol of distaste for Kyle, while Stan had no objections to them. Kyle didn't want to say it now, not even a little, though he was exhausted by that orgasm, truly drained. He couldn't imagine he had much more in him, but he was already fully hard again in Stan's hot palm.

"Good boy," Stan said, stroking him. "That's good, Kyle. I'm gonna milk your tired little dick until that glass is full."

Kyle whined, though he doubted Stan was being literal. He also didn't appreciate being called 'little' in that area. He was about the same size as Stan.

"Shit," he said, softly, and the buzz was almost entirely pleasant, like sharp fingernails scratching over his scalp, down the back of his neck, and along his spine, down toward the seat of him, arriving at the gland that Stan was carefully manipulating. Stan had gotten very good at knowing what to do with Kyle's prostate, as if Kyle was an instrument that he could carefully tune.

It took a while for him to come a second time, and he wasn't sure if he hoped or feared that Stan would make him do it again. When Stan nudged him back up onto his hands and knees, Kyle had his answer: he was overwhelmed but glad, very glad. He wanted to remain in Stan's hands for as long as he could stay conscious. He was crying by the third time he finished, still spilling into the cup, just a few weak spurts this time. Stan put his arms around Kyle's middle and pulled him back against him, wrapping him up tight and shushing him, one hand clumsily brushing at Kyle's tears. His hands were shaking, too.

"I'm so-" Kyle sobbed, not even able to articulate what he was feeling. He put his face against Stan's neck. There it was, thank God, so warm, Stan's pulse pounding heavily.

"I know," Stan said. He wiped at Kyle's cheek again, his other hand soothing over his arms, which were flopped uselessly at his sides, still trembling. "We're all done. You did so good. I really, um – dude. I think I. Felt something."

Kyle was so shaken, it took him a moment to realize what Stan was saying. He threw his head back to look at Stan's face.

"You did?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I mean, it's not like I got - you know what, I actually don't want to talk about it. I told myself I wouldn't say anything."

"Oh. Okay."

"Go clean yourself up," Stan said, pushing him away gently. "You're a mess. Take that glass with you."

Kyle was relieved not to be asked to drink it. He would have had to 'banana' his way out of that one. His head was swimming as he walked to the bathroom. He felt like he'd imagined what Stan said about maybe feeling something, hallucinating in his delirium – he could barely walk. Or maybe it was Stan who had imagined it.

When Kyle returned to the bed, he brought a damp rag for Stan to clean his hand with, as was customary. He no longer felt awkward, and he dumped himself onto Stan without hesitation, clinging to him. Stan looped his arms around Kyle, cleaned his hand and tossed the rag away. He tipped Kyle's chin up and kissed his face, his lips. They both took deep breaths and let them out slowly, Kyle blinking up at Stan between kisses. Stan seemed awake enough, and Kyle wondered if he had more to say about what he might have felt.

"I think we have to do something about Tweek," he said at last, and it took Kyle a moment to process that.

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Like, I don't know. Maybe we could offer to let him stay with us until he finds another - job. Now that the war's over, there are supposed to be all these rebuilding opportunities for us, Canada's going to fund it-"

"Stan, what are you talking about? We don't even know Tweek. Not anymore." He thought of what he'd seen at the top of Cartman's attic staircase. Tweek had been so indifferently debased, at least before he knew that Kyle was watching. He'd looked lifeless, despite all the whimpering, which was probably meant to simulate the noises Butters might have made.

"We know him, Kyle. It's a small town. We can't just let him fall between the cracks."

"I don't know what to tell you," Kyle said, regretting having brought it up at all, though it had been partially responsible for what followed, which was the best sex he'd ever had by far. "Ask Jimbo about it. Or my dad, or all three of them. I don't know who the hell's in charge anymore."

"I think you are," Stan said. "How about I ask you?"

"Ask me what?"

"If Tweek could crash here. If he wants to. Maybe you're right, maybe he's into what's going on over there at the brothel. But I doubt it. He was always really shy. He didn't even like wearing shorts in gym."

"Shy people can enjoy sex work." Kyle groaned when he heard himself. Tweek definitely hadn't looked happy to be under Cartman. "Fine, just. I'll talk to him. I'll see what he says. Or maybe you should?"

"Yeah. Get a message to him, tell him to come by the shelter some time when I'm working. I'll be there every day until three."

"That's so great," Kyle said. "I mean. I'm really happy that you're volunteering."

"I think I am, too," Stan said. He sighed so heavily that Kyle felt as if he'd been lifted up and set back down, and he squirmed against Stan's chest, wanting to get closer somehow. "Forget what I said about feeling something," Stan said when Kyle had started to drift off. "It was mostly in my stomach. In my gut, or whatever."

"Oh," Kyle said. "Okay. But-"

"Go to sleep, Kyle. You need to rest."

Kyle dropped into sleep like a stone falling through water. It felt good to be so thoroughly physically and emotionally drained, spent to the point of complete weakness and safe in Stan's arms. He slept well, until a dream about sliding into a hot tub that quickly turned cold woke him. Something was off - he was wet, down between his legs. It didn't feel like come, and Kyle sat up in a panic, afraid it was blood, that he'd actually ruptured something in his ass with all that pleasure mixed with the jarring shocks from the chip. He recognized the smell before he put the light on: pee. For a moment he thought it was his own, but a cursory examination of the front of Stan's pajama pants said otherwise.

Stan woke more slowly, and he cursed when he saw what had happened, grimacing when the shock came. Kyle zipped around the room saying it was okay, it was fine, he could change the sheets, no big deal, but he could see that Stan was crushed by this development. Kyle was holding back tears himself as he prodded Stan out of the puddle of piss that he was lying in listlessly. It was as if they were being punished for finally finding a way to be okay with the way things were.

"That's what the feeling was," Stan said once Kyle had helped him into a bath. "My bladder was full. Jesus Christ. I forgot to go before bed, and I effing drank, and - I can't believe I thought. What an idiot."

"You're not an idiot," Kyle said. He was still so tired; they'd only slept for a few hours. He couldn't come up with anything else to say that wouldn't infuriate Stan, so he stripped off the t-shirt he'd put on while the bath filled and stepped into the water with Stan, moving Stan's legs aside to wedge himself between them. With both of them squeezed into the tub, the water almost overflowed. Kyle sunk down as low as he could, trying to get his shoulders under. Stan held him after a few moments of hesitation.

"How can you put up with this disgusting crap?" Stan asked. "It's never going to change or get better, Kyle. It's always going to be like this. Let's face it - this is not the last time you're going to get peed on. And worse stuff will come."

"Like what?" Kyle asked, and then he regretted the question very much. "Look - no. I'm not disgusted by you. That's impossible. It's just part of being together. Stuff happens. I'm not a baby."

"It's not part of being together with a normal person, though. Kyle, it gee-dee kills me, what I've done to you. What I'm turning you into."

"You're not turning me into anything," Kyle said, increasingly angry. He could feel Stan's soft cock against the small of his back, squished there, and it was arousing him, though his own cock had no hope of getting hard after three orgasms. "Let's not talk about it tonight. We're both too tired to make any sense."

They didn't talk about it in the morning, either, and got ready for their respective shifts in irritable silence. Kyle wasn't sure what more he could say or do to convince Stan that the occasional bed wetting episode wasn't going to scare him away. When Stan went out to the kitchen for breakfast, Kyle opened the small window above the bed to air out the room, which still smelled faintly of urine. He thought of going into the closet and visiting the dildo, but told himself to stop being so ridiculous and went out to get something to eat instead.

It was a relief that Stan was still willing to start his volunteering at the shelter despite the badly timed pee setback. Kyle tried to put it out of his mind throughout the day, and he mostly worried about how Stan's shift was going. What if he was faced with tasks that he couldn't do without the use of his legs? Would he throw up his hands the way he had when he woke up with wet pajama pants, giving up after a single humiliation?

"I guess Wendy's working at the shelter today?" Kyle said to Gregory when it was lunch time and she still hadn't shown.

"Yes," Gregory said. "She was all atwitter over the return of her boyfriend."

"He's not-" Kyle said, and he made himself stop. Gregory was in a bad mood, and had forced Kyle to join him in taking inventory. The Red Cross camp would be shutting down soon. Kyle had no idea how he would fill his hours after that - would he get a job? He didn't know what adult life without a war raging on somewhere would feel like. It scared him almost as much as the approaching Canadian army once had.

"Well, she's making some strays her priority now," Gregory said. "As I might have guessed. She says she'll still help out here, but I don't see how she'll have the time. It's not as if Cartman is going to help her run that place."

"Speaking of Cartman," Kyle said. "Could you do me a favor and discreetly get a message to the brothel for me?"

Gregory whirled on him and frowned, the can of chickpeas in his hand suddenly resembling a weapon. Kyle had never seen him look truly angry before.

"Why on earth would you assume I visit that place?" Gregory asked. "Who the hell do you think I am? I could date if I chose to, I don't have to resort-"

"I'm not saying you're a regular customer! I just don't know who else to ask. Christophe, maybe? Jesus, calm down."

"What sort of message do you have for that place, anyway?" Gregory asked, still glaring at him.

"It's a message for one of the - employees. He's an old friend of ours, and Stan has decided that we need to help him get out of that place." He had reminded Kyle about it as they were leaving that morning.

"Oh." Gregory's glare mellowed into a frown. "I see. Well, that's noble. I'll see what I can do, but I'm certainly not going there personally. What's the fellow's name?"

"Tweek. And Cartman can't know about this. He'd be furious if he knew we wanted to, ugh. Steal him away."

"I wish that boor would leave town for good," Gregory said. "It would solve so many problems. He has the spirit of a carpetbagger - maybe he'll take his money and go try to swindle some more vulnerable community."

"No, I don't think Cartman will leave," Kyle said, and he realized with alarm that he was connecting this theory to himself. Cartman would never tire of tormenting him and Stan, of holding things over their heads, obsessing from afar but never far enough. The sense that there was unfinished business between him and Cartman haunted Kyle daily.

He found pen and paper and wrote a note for Tweek, which Gregory assured him Christophe could deliver discreetly. He wrote 'Dear Tweek,' then groaned and started over with a new sheet of paper.

_Tweek,_

_If you can, sneak away without telling Cartman and meet Stan Marsh at the new animal shelter. It's just down the road from the brothel. He's there every day until three. We have a proposition for you, if you want to leave. You're not alone or forgotten. You still have friends._

_Good luck,_  
 _K.B._  
 _(Destroy this after reading)_  
 _(And please don't be embarrassed about you know what. It's fine. I haven't told anyone, not even Stan.)_

He stared at the words 'It's fine,' trying to come up with a better way to phrase his non-judgment, but eventually gave up and passed the note to Gregory as it was. After his shift, he drove Wendy's car over to the animal shelter, where Jimbo would pick him and Stan up. The place was much calmer without the fundraising crowd, and Wendy offered him some leftover refreshments as she led him inside. Stan was out back tossing a ball for a bounding cocker spaniel who brought it back to him eagerly after every retrieval.

"It's been so nice," Wendy said, pouring cloudy pink punch for Kyle. "Being around him again, and seeing him like this. He's so eager to help. It's wonderful."

"I'm glad you had a good first day," Kyle said. It was true, though he was burning with jealousy. "This is an awesome thing you did for him," he said, more quietly. Wendy beamed.

"Was Gregory a b-word about me not being there?" she asked.

"A little. Wendy, you know he likes you. Romantically."

"Oh, I don't think so."

"I do think so. C'mon, please. It's obvious."

"Well, he's bisexual," Wendy said, and she sighed. "I don't think I could handle the pressure of a bisexual partner. It's like - I guess I'd be afraid that they'd be longing for the other set of sex organs from time to time."

"What?" Kyle said, his face heating.

"Yes - you didn't know that? I thought he was relatively out. I'm pretty sure he lets Christophe do him or whatever. Their relationship is so strange."

Kyle felt accused, as if she was metaphorically discussing his own relationship with Stan, though she knew nothing about it. He sometimes caught himself thinking that everyone was quietly aware of their partnership and that it was more than just a close friendship, and then would be struck with the reminder that, for Stan, it was a very grave secret.

"Are you alright?" Wendy asked. Stan had put the leash on the dog and was heading inside with him.

"I'm fine," Kyle said. "Just surprised about Gregory and Christophe, I guess."

"I was sort of disappointed for a while," Wendy said. "About him and Christophe. But now it's like, who cares?"

 _Now_ : now that she had Stan back? Stan grinned at Kyle as he entered the former kitchen area, where Kyle and Wendy were having a snack on the operating table in the middle of the room.

"Hey, dude," Stan said. Like old times. "You want to give me a hand? I've still got a couple of dogs I need to exercise."

Kyle didn't want to exercise dogs in the slightest, but he was glad to be included, and he spent the next half hour playing with mutts as enthusiastically as he could. Wendy took over eventually, and Kyle went inside to pet some cats. He half-expected to find Cartman still sitting in the big red armchair with a cat in his lap, and was relieved when he found the room empty except for the cats, who meowed their entreaties as he approached. One in particular, a fluffy two-year-old who was mostly black with white paws, was very vocal about not wanting to return to her cage after Kyle had played with her. He thought about bringing her home, and decided to wait and see if Tweek was going to become their new pet before he adopted another mouth to feed.

It didn't take long for Tweek to sneak away from the brothel and show up at the shelter: he was there by Friday. Kyle borrowed Jimbo's truck to pick up Stan, and when he arrived at the shelter he found Tweek sitting in the front indoor playroom with a very old-looking beagle in his lap, having a cup of tea with Stan. Tweek looked like absolute hell, as usual.

"Hey, good, you're here," Stan called, beckoning him in. "I was just trying to convince Tweek that we can totally protect him from Cartman. We can, right?"

"I don't know, man!" Tweek said before Kyle could speak. "He - he's got a lot of money! He could hire people to come and kill me in my sleep!"

"Oh, he could not," Kyle said. "Don't buy into his self-aggrandizement. He's not above the effing law. He doesn't own you."

"But he thinks he does!"

"That doesn't matter, Tweek," Stan said. "Cartman's will isn't law. And nobody in town actually likes him. You'll have a lot of allies if he tries to go against you."

"Which he won't do," Kyle said, giving Tweek a meaningful look. "It would embarrass him too much to give the appearance of caring about what a retired male hooker does. No offense," he added when Stan gave him a look.

"Oh, my God!" Tweek said. He put the tea down and grabbed at his stringy hair, which was almost chin-length. The beagle looked up at him with concern. "Does everybody in town know?"

"No," Stan said. "Only me and Kyle, and Clyde, I guess."

"Clyde?" Tweek jerked as if shocked, like Clyde's name was a bad word. "God - no, that's terrible! We used to be friends!"

"He's still your friend," Kyle said, already regretting that he'd lied about how he found out about Tweek. "And he won't talk to you about it. He's very - you know how Clyde is. He's not confrontational." This wasn't true at all, though Clyde certainly didn't mean to be confrontational. Kyle cringed, vaguely recalling some blunt as a hammer remark Clyde had made about seeing Craig's eye socket.

"I can't just move into your house!" Tweek said. "I don't have any money. Not without, guh. Working."

"We'll find you a job and get you a place of your own," Stan said. "This is just temporary, so you can get away from him."

"He helped me at first!" Tweek said. "Him and Craig, too. I had a good job at the market! Then Butters died, and Bebe came home, and now they don't give a shit - ACH!"

Kyle had forgotten how overly dramatic Tweek was about being shocked. He jerked so violently that the beagle jumped down and fled in terror, running toward Stan's outstretched hand. Kyle sighed. Living with Tweek would be obnoxious as hell, but Stan seemed to need another project, and Kyle didn't want to deny him this. Stan was more like his old self every day. Included in this return to normalcy was his seeming lack of interest in pleasuring Kyle, who wasn't quite pathetic enough to ask for it, yet.

Tweek came home with them that night, and Stan gave Kyle instructions about how to set him up in Randy's old office, which had been mostly untouched since Randy's death, aside from its use as a storage room. Tweek would sleep on a cot donated by Jimbo, and Kyle didn't appreciate having to set it up for him, Tweek lingering in the doorway like a confused child and Stan down at the foot of the stairs, staring upward and shouting things he'd forgotten to tell Kyle to provide Tweek with.

"This means a lot, man," Tweek said when Kyle was finished outfitting the room for him. "Thank you, like. So much."

"You're welcome," Kyle said, feeling badly for how annoyed he'd been about the whole thing. Tweek looked sincerely grateful, his giant eyes shining with unshed tears. "Bathroom's across the hall," Kyle said, hoping Tweek would shower before dinner. He reeked of stale sex and nervous sweat.

In bed that night, Stan was full of ideas. About Tweek, about the shelter, and even about Bebe.

"Gregory came by the shelter yesterday," he said. "And he was saying she should run for mayor in November. He thinks the mayor's let the town go to complete crap and allowed people like Cartman to get away with murder, and everyone loves Bebe, she's a war hero, she's getting another medal in some ceremony next week - which, by the way, do you want to go to that?"

"Gregory is bisexual."

Kyle was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling with Stan stretched out beside him, propped up on his elbow as he spoke, just like their pre-war sleepovers. They weren't even touching in the accidental way they had back then.

"What?" Stan said, and Kyle turned to look at him.

"Gregory is bisexual," he said again, more slowly. "He does things with Christophe. According to Wendy. I guess that's one reason Wendy never pursued a relationship with him. She told me - she said she wouldn't want to compete. With that."

"What are you doing?" Stan asked.

"What - what am I doing? I'm lying here talking to you. What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm not - Kyle, what's wrong?"

"Are you serious? Stan, you're not Clyde Donovan. Don't pretend to be so effing dense."

"I know I've been a little distant," Stan said, his cheeks going pink. "In bed, I know. Part of it is just that I'm so tired at night now. The work at the shelter is ten times more moving around and physical stuff than I was used to doing during the day. But, also - I was just so horrified, Kyle. We had that - thing, that night, it felt really special, and I felt good at it, and happy about it for once, just plain happy without complications, and then I effing peed all over you."

"That doesn't negate what came beforehand!" Kyle sat up, immense relief pouring into him, flooding his chest with warmth. "You were so excited and preoccupied that you forgot to empty the tank before you fell asleep. That's all! It's - a reflection of how good it was that night, if anything. And yes, me too, I effing loved it. I was happy, too."

Stan smiled, and Kyle did, too, slowly. He settled back onto the pillow and Stan scooted over to hug his arm across Kyle's chest.

"I just thought," Stan said, "That night, I thought: maybe I haven't ruined Kyle's life after all. And then it was like, bam, yes, you have."

"No - God! No, Stan. A little pee never ruined anything."

"Dude, you used to tell me I was disgusting for peeing in the _shower._ "

"You were! Because it was intentional, and showers are where you get _clean_. But accidents happen. And I miss, you know. Receiving your attentions."

Stan laughed, and when he bent down to kiss Kyle it felt like the first time they'd really tried it, warm and deep, a lingering kiss that tasted like something they both needed badly. Maybe it was because they were talking at last, really talking, like they had in bed together as kids, sharing things they'd never say to other people. Kyle had been itchy to resume activities related to his ass, but now he felt like he could simply lie like this all night long, being kissed. Stan usually only kissed him in the aftermath of something he felt vaguely guilty for having done. This was different: a real kiss.

Things went back to normal for them after that - the new normal, where Stan gave Kyle nightly milkings of one variety or another - and for some time Kyle began to feel secure, despite Stan's new schedule of spending his days happily frolicking with Wendy and their house full of animals. When he came home, he joined Kyle in taking care of Tweek, who Jimbo and Ned looked at askance and Gerald was generally indifferent to, as if his heart couldn't handle caring about an additional person. It was left to Stan and Kyle to see that Tweek ate, which was a harder job that it should have been, that he bathed regularly and didn't spend all day lying on that cot and grinding his teeth. He was addicted to something that he'd been taking at the brothel, though he wouldn't fess up to this, as if taking drugs was worse than getting nailed by Cartman and called 'Butters' for cash. He was jumpy, always sweating profusely, and forcing him to get some calories in each day was like trying to breastfeed a chicken, but Stan had a way with Tweek like he did with the animals at the shelter, and he could usually persuade Tweek to choke down a dry sandwich with government-issued bacon.

Between this and his anxiety about the Red Cross camp preparing to close, Kyle often went to bed frustrated, but once there he was in paradise, showered with newly affectionate attention. Stan had even begun to let Kyle lick him: his arms, his chest, his hard stomach. Kyle still longed to slurp Stan's fat cock into his mouth, but that was something he wouldn't dare to ask for until they had been together for years. He was starting to think they would be together for years.

His confidence wavered when a letter from Sharon arrived at last. Stan was overjoyed, and one of the first things he did after receiving it was call up Wendy to let her know. He spent some time on the phone with her, thanking her for her efforts to get in touch with Sharon, since it had been Wendy's original letter that finally reached her, not Kyle's. This depressed Kyle, though he knew it was silly. He had agonized over how to tell Sharon that Stan was irrevocably injured, and now that letter was just floating around somewhere, never to be received. Sharon's letter had informed them that she was leaving New York that day, released from her duty and headed home. She expected to arrive by Independence Day, which was in just a few weeks.

"Will we still celebrate this year?" Kyle asked when they were in bed together. "The Fourth, I mean." During the war, the holiday had well outstripped Christmas and New Year's for the biggest celebration in their community. "Seems morbid or something, now," Kyle said while Stan considered this question, frowning.

"We're not independent anymore," Stan said. "As Americans, anyway. Jimbo was telling me that we won't be allowed to have a standing army for a hundred years. Could that actually be true?"

Kyle could see that none of this had really hit Stan yet, and he could relate. Kyle's mother had already been repainted as a nefarious villain who deserved a fate worse than the one she'd gotten. He tried to stay away from the news.

"I don't know what will happen," Kyle said. He rolled closer to Stan, against his chest. The nights were beginning to get warmer, and it was a little stuffy in the room with the window closed and the curtains drawn. "We'll tough it out, though. We'll survive. We're still Americans."

"Jimbo said they're gonna call it the United Republic of Canada. The whole continent, all the way down to Guatemala."

"Your uncle listens to radical nationalist programs, Stan. A lot of it is just panic."

"How much longer are those programs even gonna be allowed on the air? Do you think?"

Kyle shook his head. He hadn't considered that. He spent most of his time worrying about how he would make money once the paltry remains of the Broflovski family savings were gone, and about petty things like Stan enjoying his time with Wendy at the shelter. Sometimes he felt like the changes to come would steamroll him and all of South Park, and when he felt that way he could only do what he was doing now: hold on tightly to Stan and hide his face against Stan's throat.

Sharon arrived in South Park two days before the fourth of July. She called the house from the bus station and Jimbo went to pick her up. He would pick up Stan from the shelter on the way there, and there was no room for Kyle to come along, so he tried to refocus on the work he was doing in their shabby victory garden - which was now a defeat garden, he supposed. He was incredibly nervous, afraid of how things would change. His father would of course not continue sleeping on the floor near Sharon Marsh's bed. Gerald had already spoken to Kyle about moving back into their old house, which he wanted to sell, if such a thing were possible. When the routes between east and west reopened, he wanted to return to his family in upstate New York, if they had survived the war. Even if they hadn't, he was ready to leave South Park and full of plans to change both his name and Kyle's, leaving word with the Marsh family in case Ike should ever return. Kyle had listened to all of this without comment, having no clue how to tell his father that he wouldn't be leaving Stan's side or changing his name. Now, with Sharon coming home, one of them would have to explain why Kyle wouldn't be leaving with Gerald when he moved out. It wasn't as if Stan would need him as a nurse any longer - Sharon was an expert. Kyle had planned to discuss this with Stan before his mother arrived, but he'd dragged his feet, afraid that Stan might suggest they sleep apart for a while while his mom readjusted to civilian life, and now he'd run out of time.

When Jimbo and Stan arrived with Sharon sitting between them in the pickup truck, all three family members were understandably in tears. Sharon was smiling, mostly, but Kyle could see that she was jarred by Stan's condition as Jimbo helped him down into his wheelchair. Kyle went forward to hug her after Ned and Gerald had, feeling guilty in her presence, as if she would know as soon as they touched that he had taken advantage of Stan's misfortune for his own sexual pleasure. He tried not to think about it as she rocked him in her arms, as if he was another long lost son.

"You look so grown up," she said when she pulled back, wiping at her eyes.

"I do?" Kyle looked down at himself. He still felt like a clueless child in most scenarios, even when he was reminding his father to eat something for lunch.

"Both of you," she said, turning to Stan. He wouldn't have been in the chair at the bus station - would he have? Was this the first time she was seeing it? Sharon seemed dazed, and was fighting back more tears as Jimbo blew his nose wetly into a handkerchief that Ned had produced. Tweek was lingering near the front door uncertainly. Kyle suspected that Stan had explained about Tweek on the trip from the bus station, but maybe it had slipped his mind. Before she entered the house, Sharon hugged Tweek and asked him how he was doing.

"Better!" Tweek said. "Better than last week." His detox seemed to be mostly over, and he'd started joining the family for normal dinners.

Inside the house, Stan and Sharon went into Stan and Kyle's room to talk and drink some beers. Everyone else busied themselves elsewhere, giving them some time to reconnect. Kyle was surprised when Tweek wandered out and started helping him pull weeds.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," Kyle said. He hoped this meant that Tweek would start doing his own laundry soon.

"Yeah," Tweek said. He sat back on his knees and glanced at the house. "Um. Do you think she'll let me stay?"

"Sure," Kyle said. "Although, if you want more room, my dad's going back to my house. You could stay with him."

"And you?" Tweek asked hopefully.

"No," Kyle said, also hopefully. "I'm gonna stay here. Stan - there are certain things I help him with, um. I know she's his mom, but it would be awkward for them, I think, now that he's grown."

"Cartman says his dick doesn't work," Tweek said, and he flinched when Kyle glared at him. "Sorry."

"Well. Yeah, you should be sorry. That's personal."

"It's just, ah. I can hear you, sometimes! Sounds like sex stuff. Down there."

"Ugh," Kyle said, his face heating. If Tweek could hear them, so could Gerald. And still, his father was asking him to move back home. Maybe he wanted to break up the party. "I guess it's only fair, you throwing that in my face," Kyle said, giving Tweek an unfriendly stare. "Since, well. I spied on your private time. I'm sorry about that, really. I didn't mean to. I was just too stunned when I heard. You know."

"Butters," Tweek said, and he shuddered. "Yeah. At least I wasn't wearing the outfit."

"There's an outfit?"

"Yes! Cartman stole it from Butters' house while everyone was at the funeral. He's got half his wardrobe. He's effing crazy, man!"

"That's not exactly news to me," Kyle said, though he was disturbed about this new information. "Listen, um. Was he forcing you?" He asked this as gently as he could, still looking at the weedy garden. "Because. I just wouldn't be surprised if he had. I'd believe you."

"He didn't force me - gah. He was crying and stuff, saying he missed Butters. He said I could help him, that he'd pay me, like I was a - therapist!"

"Christ," Kyle mumbled, and he yanked out a particularly nefarious-looking weed. "He does need help, but that's demented."

A big feast had been planned for Sharon's return, and Jimbo had purchased most of the components already, but he had to go to the market for a few other things. While he was gone, Kyle helped Sharon unpack. She'd asked him to do so, and he found the request odd, but he supposed it was the only excuse she could come up with to interview him alone. Stan was napping downstairs, drained by all the crying they'd done together.

"He told me you've been taking care of him," she said as she unpacked her bag, Kyle watching, not sure how he could help. "Honey, I just. I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. Somehow I knew you'd take care of him if he came home - hurt. Oh, Kyle, it's just - and he's acting so brave, for my benefit, but I know it's been so hard."

"Not as hard as when I didn't know if he was okay," Kyle said. "You don't have to thank me. I want do this for him, believe me."

"I know." Sharon came around the bed to touch Kyle's face. "And you, who takes care of you?"

"Stan does, and Jimbo sometimes. Ned cooks."

"Your father isn't well. I can see it. His face - it reminds me of what he was like when Ike died."

"Yeah," Kyle said, jarred by the mention of his 'dead' brother. For all he knew, the lie had become truth. Gerald had been devastated when they were forced to hide Ike in the attic, afraid that it would ruin his son's life just as surely as an internment camp would. Sheila had told him to stop worrying, that the war would be over soon, and that after America won they could tell the truth about what they'd done for Ike and be forgiven.

"He's just a baby," she'd said. Kyle remembered it clearly; he'd been eavesdropping on his parents' fight. "He won't even remember this."

"He told me that he broke it off with Wendy," Sharon said, lowering her voice. "That must have been hard for them. Apparently he's been seeing her again, though?"

"Um. Yeah." Seeing? In what context? "But. You know. It's not like they're re-engaged," Kyle said, suddenly feeling uncertain about this, as if Stan would renew his promise to her without telling him.

"Right." Sharon closed her eyes. "No, I don't suppose he'll marry, now. He's too selfless to consider it. And speaking of that - Kyle, he insists that you'll want to stay and continue taking care of him, but you really don't have to, sweetheart. I can take it from here, if you want to start getting on with your life."

"No," Kyle said, so firmly that he was embarrassed. "Really, it's. My life is with Stan. I love him."

She studied him for a moment, and he could see her begin to realize what he meant. She nodded to herself.

"I always thought so," she said, and she turned back to her bag. When she'd been quiet for a few moments, sorting undergarments into piles, Kyle turned to leave. So Stan had said nothing about how things had changed between them. Now Sharon would think Kyle was hanging on to Stan in some pathetic attempt to cling to whatever parts of him he could have, which he supposed was true, really. When Kyle reached the doorway, he turned back.

"What was New York like?" he asked. His parents had met there. "When you left, I mean."

"Some buildings were still there," she said, and when she turned he saw that the question had upset her, though she was trying to smile. Her eyes were wet again.

"What – some buildings?"

"Still standing," she said, and she wiped at her eyes with the backs of her thumbs. "Gosh, I'm beat. I think I'll take a nap, too." Her voice had pinched up entirely by the time she finished saying so, but Kyle knew she wanted to be alone, not comforted by the boy who was in love with her paralyzed son.

Kyle went downstairs, slipping through the kitchen quietly when Ned had his back turned. He wasn't in the mood to help with the meal, and the kitchen was sweltering even with the back door open to let out some of the heat from the stove. Kyle went into the bedroom, where Stan was sleeping on top of the blankets. The curtains were open to a view of the front lawn, which needed mowing. Kyle closed them and peeled off his shirt, then his pants. He wished he was still young enough to pull off shorts. There were rumors that it was going to be an extremely hot summer.

"I didn't want to wake you," Kyle whispered when Stan stirred as he slid into bed beside him. Stan was lying on his stomach, his face turned toward Kyle on his pillow. Kyle sidled up to him and draped an arm across his shoulders, wanting to lick them, though now was not the time. "Are you okay?" Kyle asked when Stan just blinked at him sleepily, his eyelids puffy and his cheeks still a bit splotchy.

"We need to get a fan," Stan said. "For in here."

"Yeah - I guess we do. Good idea. So, and, hey. Your mom is back."

"She get settled in upstairs?"

"She's starting to, yeah. I don't know if I'm up for this big meal Jimbo is putting together. You know?"

"I'm pretty hungry," Stan said. He rolled onto his side with a groan and pulled Kyle against him. Kyle hid his smile against Stan's neck, which was slightly damp with sweat. Maybe a little lick would be okay; Sharon's return was a happy occasion, after all, if bittersweet. He dared one soft lick up toward Stan's jaw, then another. "Mhmm," Stan said. He seemed to be falling asleep again. "Feels good."

"Yeah?" Kyle moved up to lick him below his ear, and he nibbled wetly on the lobe. He was curious about how exactly Stan experienced pleasure now, which he supposed was ridiculous - same as always, minus an erection. It was just that Kyle seemed to feel every good thing Stan did to him primarily in his balls.

"Your dad leaving tonight or what?" Stan asked while Kyle continued to lick him, pausing to kiss his salty cheek at moments.

"I don't know," Kyle said. "I guess so, since there's no place for him to sleep. He wants to move to New York as soon as he can travel."

"Hhm." Stan's grip on Kyle tightened, his fingers flexing.

"I'm not going with him," Kyle said. "Don't worry."

"I wasn't worried. I know. But what about Ike?"

"What about him? Stan, I think he's dead."

Stan opened his eyes and frowned up at Kyle, who felt horrible for saying so. He waited for tears to spring to his eyes, but they didn't, and for a moment this seemed like confirmation that he was wrong, that his brother was still alive somewhere.

"Don't say that," Stan said. "He's with Karen. They're okay."

"They're fugitive children in a war torn country. That's at best. Look, I don't want to talk about it. Ike's gone, either way, and my dad is leaving. I'm staying. I don't know what you want to tell your mom about us. Nothing, I presume."

"It's none of her business, what I do in here with you," Stan said, his eyes darkening. "I don't see why I should have to discuss it."

"Fine," Kyle said, annoyed. He rolled over, and Stan spooned up behind him - apologetically, Kyle hoped. He hadn't expected Stan to make an announcement about their sex life at dinner that night, but some indication that he would share the changes in his relationship with Kyle with Sharon eventually would have been nice. Kyle supposed Stan wouldn't know what to call it. Boyfriends seemed ridiculous, and any suggestion that they were having sex would raise embarrassing questions. Kyle fell asleep, and suffered from bad dreams about Cartman for the first time since the night of the shelter fundraising party. They weren't as horrible as the nightmares where Stan transformed into Cartman while he was inside Kyle, but they were dark dreams full of anxiety and Cartman's cruel laughter.

The full, oppressive heat of the summer set in for good the following week, and the lawn became brittle, going brown in spots. Kyle's garden was a goner by mid-July, and so was his money. His father had moved out without protesting Kyle's desire to stay with Stan, and he was doing some legal work on and off, but hadn't been paid for it yet. Jimbo and Ned were supporting the entire household with the construction jobs they'd been taking on, and they weren't making much. Sharon had applied for a few nursing positions, but hadn't been asked on any interviews. Lots of nurses had returned from the front along with her.

"I'm desperate for work," Kyle admitted to Wendy when he went to the shelter one afternoon to pick up Stan. He was on foot, soaked in sweat and regretting that he'd so thoughtlessly given the other car to Kenny. Jimbo and Ned had the truck out on a job.

"Lots of people are," Wendy said. She was cleaning the macaw's cage, the big red bird sitting on the back of a nearby chair while she worked. Kyle didn't trust the thing; it always had a menacing look in its beady black eyes.

"Your parents aren't," Kyle said. They were both doctors, a surgeon and an orthopedist.

"They're strapped, though," Wendy said. "The health care system's a tangled mess right now. They're doing a lot of work for free, because they can't bear to turn people away."

"There's nothing they could possibly get me at Hell's Pass?" Kyle asked. "I'll sell cigarettes and gum in the lobby if I have to, anything. I'll clean bed pans."

"Kyle," Wendy said, and she looked up at him. "I'm sure it won't come to that. Well, maybe it will, but that wouldn't be your sole responsibility. You were such a big help at the Red Cross - I'm glad you asked me about this, actually. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," he said, breathless with relief, hope, and pervading worry. "Feeding Tweek is killing us. Now that he's clean he wants to eat all the time."

"Can't you just shove him off on your dad?"

"I'd like to, but he thinks my dad hates him. Apparently he snapped at Tweek for leaving towels on the floor when they were sharing a bathroom. To be honest, I think he's partially right. My dad's gotten pretty closed off and surly. And anyway, Stan treats Tweek like he's our adopted son, it's ridiculous."

Stan was in the cat room, trimming nails. He was very good at making the cats calm enough to let him do it.

"Well, I hope I can help you," Wendy said. She seemed distracted, even nervous. When she held Kyle's gaze uncertainly for a moment, he knew she had her mind on other things and was weighing whether or not to tell him about it.

"What?" he said.

"Nothing." She looked away. "I've just - I don't want to talk about it prematurely."

"About what?"

"I've been doing some research. My parents have, too. Into a thing. But it's really - I don't want to say anything until I know more."

"Okay," Kyle said, irritated. "Can you give me a hint?" he asked, though he already had one. The mention of her parents doing research along with her had set his heart racing. If it was medical research, and she this jumpy about telling Kyle, it had to be about Stan and his paralysis.

Wendy sighed and finished with the bird cage. "Let's just not get our hopes up," she said, quietly, and she went for the bird.

"Wendy!"

"There's this doctor," she said, whispering. "A Canadian doctor. He can do things. He's done amazing things that were previously thought impossible. It's very expensive, though, Kyle. We'd have to fly him here, put him up in a hotel, have him evaluate the situation, and then there's the actual surgery, which apparently takes hours-"

She stopped talking, and they both looked toward the hallway. Stan was there, in his chair. He must have oiled the wheels; Kyle hadn't heard him coming, either.

"What surgery?" Stan asked.

"Oh, God." Wendy groaned and deposited the bird in his cage. "Shit!" She winced and jerked. "I didn't want to bring it up until I was certain."

"Certain about what?" Stan looked at Kyle and frowned. "What the eff is going on?"

"I don't know!" Kyle said, beginning to get angry. It was criminally stupid of Wendy to even consider teasing Stan with this fantasy. "This is the first I'm hearing of it."

"I'm just brain storming," Wendy said, turning from the bird cage to Stan. Kyle realized dully that he'd never seen her blush before, or at least not this deeply. "I heard about this doctor, and I asked my parents to look into it."

"What doctor?" Stan's expression was surprisingly mild. He looked curious, even hopeful. Kyle felt like he could kill Wendy for this.

"It's a new treatment," Wendy said. "Well, new to America. The Canadian government had this doctor develop it during the war, to treat soldiers who - who had conditions like yours, paralysis following a spinal injury. They basically use glycol to fuse the severed nerve cells. It's worked instantly in a bunch of paralysis cases, totally reversed the condition. I'm not sure it would work in your case, or that we could even get the guy to come here if we had the money, which we don't, but, well. It's something to think about it."

"Is it something your dad could do?" Stan asked. "If he watched a video of the technique?"

"Stan," Kyle said.

"What?" Stan turned to him. "What, Kyle?"

"I - it's just-"

"My dad's not that kind of surgeon," Wendy said. "He's a heart specialist. You know that," she said, her face falling when Stan's shoulders dropped. "But, look. It might be a long shot, but it's something worth thinking about. I'm going to have my dad try to get in touch with this guy. If - if you want?"

"Well, yeah," Stan said. He looked down at his knees. "Yeah, it's worth a try. I've got insurance, you know, through the Army. Maybe they'd pay to get him here?"

"The Army's disbanded, Stan," Kyle said, and he felt horrible, watching the light drain from Stan's eyes as this sunk in.

"Oh," he said. "Yeah."

"Maybe there's some other way to get the money," Wendy said, waving her hand through the air. "And, look, there's no guarantee that you're even a candidate for the surgery. He'd have to examine you first - but let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'll tell my dad to write the letter. Oh, Stan - I didn't want to say anything until I had an actual plan in place, or knew if the guy will even be willing to speak to my dad, but it's all I can think about! I've been burning to tell you for weeks."

Burning. Kyle didn't like that word, or the way that Stan and Wendy were looking at each other, like they were both seeing their potential salvation, just out of reach. He left the room and banged out the front door of the shelter, back into the heat.

"Kyle!" Stan shouted, following him out, and Kyle didn't have the heart to run away from him when he knew he wouldn't be able to keep up in the chair. Stan wheeled himself to where Kyle was standing, at the end of the driveway. "What the hell, dude? Why are you mad? This is good news."

"It's not, though! She's getting you all worked up over something extremely theoretical. There are too many 'if' factors, Stan, and while I agree that it's worth looking into, I just wish she wouldn't have dangled this over your head unless she knew for sure that she could get the guy to at least look at you!"

"Well, she didn't mean to! I just overheard. God, don't get so worked up."

"I'm not worked up," Kyle said, though he was, very. Stan had made so much progress, had such an improved outlook. A new setback, like the disappointment of learning that he could never pay for the surgery that would give him his life back, was enough to push him back into the darkness of despair, Kyle was sure of it. "And even if it did all magically work out, spinal surgery is not something to undergo lightly. I haven't forgotten what the Red Cross doctors said when you first got back. It was too dangerous to even open you up and have a look, they said. You could lose all motor function entirely, they said!"

"Yeah, but those doctors aren't this doctor. He's - aw, look, I don't want to get obsessed with this idea, either, since we're broke as hell and this guy's a whole country away. But this is a good thing, Kyle. Other doctors will learn how to do this. It'll trickle down to me. Maybe. Someday."

Kyle could see it already: Stan's hope flagging, depression taking its place. In bed that night, Stan was distant again. He said he was only tired, but Kyle could feel him shuttering himself away, retreating into his thoughts about how unfair it was, what had happened to him, and now the knowledge that it could possibly be fixed, but he would have to live like this without relief for years, at best, holding onto the hope that maybe someday he would be lucky enough to cross paths with someone who could help him.

In the weeks that followed, Stan was quieter, and Kyle knew exactly where his mind was. He imagined Stan plotting the whole thing out in whispers at the shelter with Wendy, reimagining the life they could possibly have together. Stan was newly frustrated with the chair and his mobility limitations, prone to cursing when he had to readjust his angle to get through a doorway, and he began talking about getting the v-chip removed again.

"Supposing I could even afford that surgery," he said in bed one night, Kyle's hopes that they would fool around waning.

"I don't want you to do that," Kyle said, feeling weak and small, and ignored, though he was clinging to Stan despite the heat.

"I know you don't," Stan said. He was on his back, looking up at the ceiling. "But every time the thing goes off, it's like they're laughing at me, Kyle. Or jabbing at an open wound."

"They?"

"The government! The people who turned me into a half person!"

"My mother, you mean," Kyle said. They were both silent for a while.

"Yeah, I guess so," Stan said, and he pulled out of Kyle's arms.

"What - where are you going?"

"I don't know. I need to get some air. Jesus, I would give anything to be able to just take an effing walk around the block and clear my head. Anything."

Kyle lay awake in a silent panic until Stan returned hours later, smelling like cigarette smoke. Kyle assumed he'd gone two blocks down to Gregory's house, where Christophe still lived. They'd become quite an established couple, though they discussed their relationship with no one and argued with each other endlessly in public. Kyle imagined them fucking, what it would be like, who would top. Christophe, he assumed, and though he imagined that the prostheses were a complication - how sad never to be able to caress your partner's skin with gentle fingertips - Christophe still had the pleasure of being inside Gregory, bending him over and fucking him hard, filling his ass with come. Kyle was mildly obsessed with his own desire to be fucked that way, more than ever since Stan's fingerings had become less frequent. He thought about the dildo all the time, and had twice gotten it out with the intention of using it on himself while Stan was away at the shelter, but he hadn't worked up the nerve. The wood was so unyielding, and it wasn't what he wanted inside him.

By the start of August, Kyle was beginning to feel depressed himself. It seemed that the only part of the day Stan looked forward to anymore was going to see the animals at the shelter - and Wendy. Kyle had gotten a job at Hell's Pass on her father's recommendation, working the busy reception desk in the cardiatric surgery department. It was a stressful, exhausting job, and though the pay was decent, he often came home with barely enough energy to shovel some food into his mouth and drop into bed. Stan would join him later, having napped after his shift at the shelter, and when he reached for Kyle's ass it frequently seemed he was doing so out of a sense of duty rather than passion, though Kyle told himself that was just his imagination. He was stunned to wake up one night to Stan turning him over onto his back and pushing his legs out of the way, up on his elbows, his head between Kyle's thighs, making a beeline for Kyle's cock with his mouth.

"What-" Kyle said, resisting the urge to cover himself.

"I want to suck it," Stan said. He seemed angry, and while Kyle was concerned, his cock was rising already. "Do you mind?"

"Do I mind if you suck my dick? No, I guess I don't. But. Stan-"

"Good," Stan said, and he grabbed it, pumped a few times and took Kyle into his mouth. Kyle groaned and let his head fall back, his thighs parting widely as pleasure ripped up his spine, waking him fully. Stan's mouth was so warm, so wet, and Kyle wanted to feel guilty for being able to enjoy this thing that Stan couldn't, but it felt too amazing to look down and see Stan's head bob as he worked Kyle's dick with his mouth. His movements were relaxed and leisurely, his tongue lathing the underside of Kyle's shaft as if he wanted to savor it. It didn't take Kyle long to come, and Stan swallowed it when he did. Kyle's guilt returned as his orgasm wound down, and he lifted his head to peer at Stan, who was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"What brought that on?" Kyle asked, curling against Stan's side when he'd dragged himself up to the pillows.

"I wanted to see if I'd like it," Stan said.

"Did you?"

"I liked the noises you made. It didn't taste good. The come, I mean. Your dick tasted fine. Could you get me some water?"

Kyle did, and he sat on his knees, watching Stan drink. He wasn't sure how to proceed: would Stan be doing that again? Could Kyle ask him to, now? No, he decided he couldn't ask, it was cruel. He would always wait for Stan to offer.

"What's the matter?" Stan asked when he noticed Kyle staring at him.

"Nothing," Kyle said, because he couldn't put his finger on why what just happened was weird. He crawled across the bed and nuzzled at Stan's face until he was rewarded with soft kisses. "I've missed you," Kyle said, hugging himself to Stan's chest.

"Huh? I've been here."

"I know, but it's like your mind is always someplace else."

Stan had no response to that except to stroke Kyle's hair. They stayed up for a while that night, not talking, both conscious that the other was awake. Kyle felt as if something was coming, some new hurdle they would have to get over.

What did come did not feel like a hurdle at first. It was a letter in response to the one Dr. Testaburger had written to Dr. Ahern, the Canadian man who was reversing spinal injuries on former soldiers. The good news was that he was doing the surgery at a discount for those injured in combat on both sides of the war. The bad news was that the discounted surgery, travel costs, and examination fee would still amount to - he estimated - twenty thousand Canadian dollars. Most of South Park was still using U.S. currency, which was worth about half its Canadian equivalent. When they received the letter, the members of the Marsh household had about two hundred U.S. dollars to their names, including the money from the babysitting jobs that Sharon had begun taking around town.

"So much for that," Stan said when Wendy had read the letter aloud to them over iced tea in the backyard at the shelter, her tone changing from excitement to quiet disbelief as her eyes moved further down the page. She had waited to open it so that they could all share in learning what they had foolishly presumed was the good news. "Maybe I'll be able to afford this surgery when I'm sixty," Stan said, wheeling away from the table and his untouched glass of tea. "If I start saving now."

"Give him a minute," Kyle said, touching Wendy's arm when she started to spring up to follow Stan across the yard. He wheeled himself into the shade of the cottonwood tree near the back left corner of fence and just sat there, staring at the tree, facing away from them. Wendy's lip was shaking when Kyle looked back to her. "Don't," Kyle said, newly furious.

"Maybe we could raise the money somehow," she said. "If - if everyone in town gave just a dollar-"

"They'd ask where everyone was when they needed money and had to go without," Kyle said, trying not to snap at her. "They'd ask why Stan's spine is more important than the injuries their loved ones came back with, the losses, the dated prosthetic-"

"It's like you wanted this to fail," Wendy said, her eyes suddenly hardening, voice low and angry. Kyle heard the rest without needing her to say it out loud: _so that you could keep him, so that I wouldn't take him away from you_. Kyle huffed. Wendy looked away, sniffling. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know that's not true. I'm just so frustrated. He's willing to come, Kyle, he's willing to come and he might be able to fix everything, to do this magic thing for something as simple as money, money that we don't have."

"No one has that kind of money," Kyle said, and when Wendy turned to him he knew they were having the same thought. "No," Kyle said. "Cartman would never." He flushed when he reconsidered that statement. He might, for a price. For a very specific, devastating price. "It's out of the question," Kyle said, his hands beginning to shake. He could picture Cartman smiling with triumphant evil, as clearly as if he was standing in the yard, beckoning to Kyle with a fat, crooked finger. _It would be so easy, Kahl, one night with me and your dream boy gets his dick back_.

"Craig then," Wendy said while Kyle sat there going white, his pulse skyrocketing. "Or Token. He still writes to me sometimes, you know. His family is doing well in D.C."

"Huh?" Kyle said, momentarily unable to process any thought but the one that would haunt him forever, or at least for as long as Stan was broken and Kyle had this sickening power to fix him.

"Token. You know, they settled in D.C. With all the other rich people. I could write to him-"

"Fine," Kyle said, and he rose on shaking legs. He crossed the yard toward Stan, trying to calm down. Maybe he was overreacting; maybe that kind of bargain with the devil wasn't a real option anyway. But he knew better, because he knew Cartman, who would pay anything for the chance to humiliate Kyle sexually for an entire evening, to take his virginity and break his spirit. That was the kind of thing Cartman dreamed about, openly.

"I'm alright," Stan said when Kyle stood beside him. "I just couldn't take the way her eyes changed when she read the part about the money."

"We were all hoping," Kyle said, and he touched Stan's shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"It was a long shot," Stan said. He still wasn't looking at Kyle. His gaze was lowered to the base of the tree.

"We'll keep trying," Kyle said, feeling useless. "We'll - write to other doctors, ones who might work for free-"

"Kyle, enough, okay? Wendy says this guy is the only one who's had regular success with this surgery, anyway. I guess he's got the magic touch. And magic doesn't come cheap. It doesn't come to South Park at all. So forget it. I'm done talking about it. Done thinking about it."

Kyle knew that wasn't true, and the rest of the week was tense and gloomy, both of them feeling as if they'd been punched in the gut one too many times. Stan skipped a few shifts at the shelter and stopped doing his workouts at home. Kyle was a zombie at work, barely able to sleep at all for all the wracking guilt about what he knew he both could and couldn't do for the money, interspersed with nightmares that Cartman had him for the night, all night, sun down to sun up. That was the deal Kyle imagined himself offering, for Stan's legs, his cock, his dignity, the children he could have with Wendy, the life he deserved. It was a bargain, really. Kyle told himself this nightly, lying in the dark with his eyes pinched shut, trying not to cry.

He didn't have the guts to go to Cartman, too cowardly to face that kind of sacrifice head-on, but of course, eventually, after Craig had turned Wendy down and Cartman learned that she was asking around town for money to pay for Stan's surgery, he came to Kyle.

On his lunch break at the hospital, Kyle had gotten into the habit of walking to the farmer's market that had been established on main street after the end of the war. It was small and the selection was somewhat grim, but he preferred it to the still booming black market with its multiple bakeries and soup stands, because it allowed him to avoid Cartman. This strategy failed on a dim Thursday afternoon when he was perusing the available fruit - mostly bruised apples, a few plums. It was going to rain later, and the clouds were gathering overhead, seeming to press down against the stifling humidity and increase its density.

"A fruit shopping for fruit," Cartman said, startling him. Kyle had grown accustomed to hearing Cartman's taunting voice in his head even when he wasn't there, and he half expected to turn and find nothing, but Cartman was real this time, leering at him, sweat dripping from his temples and staining the arm pits of his oddly fussy shirt, a pale blue button-up tucked into gray slacks. Kyle gave him a snarl and turned back to the fruit, feigning boredom. He knew what was coming.

"Why don't you let me take you to the real market and buy you a real lunch?" Cartman asked, grasping Kyle's arm to reclaim his attention. Kyle jerked away so violently that he nearly upset the fruit stand.

"Don't touch me," he said. Cartman just smiled.

"We need to talk, Jew." That one seemed to buzz him; he grunted and pressed his eyes shut for a moment.

"No, we don't," Kyle said. "I've got to get back to work."

"Bullcrap, I saw you leave the hospital five minutes ago."

"You're stalking me now? Do I need to inform the authorities?"

"I'm simply trailing you for business-related reasons. Come over here, to the courtyard. We should talk in private."

Kyle resigned himself to it, his extremities seeming to go numb as they walked to what used to be a bustling courtyard where workers on main street ate their lunch. It was now overgrown with weeds almost to the point of disuse, and the fountain at the center was dry. Once there, Cartman just stared at Kyle for a while, smiling vaguely and sweating profusely, as if he'd just jogged a mile. He was still fat as fuck, the buttons on his shirt straining to contain his doughy chest.

"What?" Kyle said. "I'm on my break. I don't have all day."

"I hear Testaburger has a new charity case," Cartman said. "Since I funded her last one, naturally I have an interest in this new one. Apparently you're in need of twenty grand to patch up the little engine that couldn't?"

"Wendy's a fool," Kyle said, annoyed that she'd let the word get around to Cartman. "We'll never raise that money. Stan and I have dropped the idea."

"Stan and I," Cartman said, doing a high-pitched imitation of Kyle's voice. "Yeah, right. You wouldn't take twenty thousand Canadian dollars if I dumped it at your feet right now? Because I could, Kyle. I have the money. That's chump change to me. I've been investing in foreign currencies for years, if you catch my drift."

Kyle did, and he was surprised he hadn't guessed it before. Cartman must have been collaborating with the enemy somehow, to keep the supply line open and cheap. Kyle thought of the bombing of the movie theater, the explosion that killed Tweek's mom.

"Terrific," Kyle said, suppressing his hatred. "But I know you're not generous, so I'm not going to waste my time asking. Goodbye."

"I want to give it to you, Kyle," Cartman said, and Kyle turned back to him, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. "I do, sincerely. I could give you the money tomorrow, Stan could be on his feet by his twentieth birthday. Wouldn't that be nice? Wouldn't that be just great?"

"Just say it," Kyle said, proud of himself for keeping the terrified shake out of his voice. "Tell me what you want."

"I think you know what I want," Cartman said, lowering his voice. He walked toward Kyle, who took a step backward. "I want you as my slave. Not forever, just for a day. And I want you to bring back the present I gave you, so that I can put it in you as a placeholder while my dick rebounds from the last time I rammed it up your raw little asshole."

His chip fired, seemingly hard, but he was smiling as if he'd enjoyed the shock when his eyes reopened.

"No," Kyle said, but even he didn't believe himself when he heard his voice. "Never. Stan wouldn't want that, not ever, not even if he was going to die if I didn't do it."

"That's the beautiful part!" Cartman said, and he grinned. "We wouldn't have to tell Stan. Wouldn't have to tell anybody! You could tell Stan and Wendy you blackmailed me, that you held my activities with Tweek over my head to get the money. There: simple, neat and clean. And you can walk away - presuming you'll still be able to walk when I'm done with you - with twenty thousand dollars. Easy as pie."

"Stan would know," Kyle said. He was mostly talking to himself, dizzy, his stomach lurching every time the hot wind blew a whiff of Cartman's sweat in his direction. "He would see the bruises. He'd see that you hurt me. He'd find out."

"Maybe," Cartman said, and he shrugged. "But by the time that ignorant douche caught on, it would probably be too late. What would he do, yank the shit that fixed him out of his spine in protest? Hell no, and he'd have it all back, the legs, his balls, his manly pride. Would he be pissed at you, maybe, but you'd have saved him, Kyle. You'd have saved your beloved Stan's life."

Kyle turned and threw up, mostly water. He expected Cartman to laugh, but he looked annoyed when Kyle was able to straighten and face him again, after a few bracing breaths.

"I'll think about it," he said, barely able to make his voice work. Cartman actually seemed surprised. His eyebrows shot up. Kyle noticed that his hair line was receding, just slightly. For a moment he was sure that he would pass out. It was the heat, which felt like the flames of Hell at his back.

"God," Cartman said, and he smirked. "I'm getting hard just standing here, thinking about it. See?" He reached for Kyle's hand, pressing his hips forward, but Kyle jumped away.

"I have to go," he said, speaking to himself, telling himself to get the hell out of there. He turned, not even sure where to walk to. Not back to the market: his appetite was gone.

"You have one week to consider my offer!" Cartman said, shouting. "One week, and then I treat myself to a brand new car with that twenty grand instead."

Kyle ran. He ran as hard as he could, though he was weak with fear and the humid air felt unbreathable when he sucked in great lungfuls of it. He could smell the rain coming. He didn't care if he got wet, didn't care if he fainted on the way back to the hospital. He just wanted to run, to push his whole body as hard as he could, and to get away from what was happening.

Of course he couldn't outrun it. Later, at home, Stan asked him what was wrong multiple times, and got mad when Kyle insisted that it was nothing. They slept on opposite sides of the bed until midnight, when Kyle couldn't take his lonely dread anymore and needed the comfort of Stan's touch too much to resist crawling over to him. He rubbed his face against the back of Stan's neck, wanting him to wake up, kissing him in little pecks with his trembling lips.

"I love you," he whispered, like it was a spell that could save him. "I love you, Stan, oh, God."

Stan didn't wake, but Kyle was too upset to let him sleep. He prodded at Stan, stroking his chest and biting gently at his ear, until he woke with a sharp intake of breath and rolled over partway, looking back at Kyle.

"What's wrong?" he asked. Kyle forced himself to hold back the sobs he wanted to unleash. He'd never be able to explain himself, and he didn't know how to ask for what he wanted - just for Stan to do something, anything, that would make him feel loved and clean and safe, if only temporarily.

"I just-" Kyle said, or tried to say, but he couldn't go any further than that without risking tears.

"Kyle, hey, what's the matter?" Stan rolled toward him and cupped his cheek, his other arm slipping under Kyle's neck and wrapping around his shoulders. "Tell me," Stan said, stroking his cheek.

"I just feel really bad," Kyle said, his voice only mostly wrecked, not completely useless. "About the whole surgery thing. I just wish I could do something. That I could do more than just lay here and let you take such good care of me, while I do nothing."

"Dude, what? You do everything for me! I don't even have a real job."

"You know what I mean, Stan," Kyle said, and he finally lost it at that, the inevitable sobs bursting out. Stan moaned regretfully and held him tighter, let him cry. Once the tears had started, Kyle didn't hold back, burying choking sobs against Stan's chest until his ribs ached. He started to feel better as the crying wore down, and he was afraid Stan would press him with more questions about what was really bothering him, but he didn't. He cleared the moisture from Kyle's face, kissed the bridge of his nose and the corners of his eyes. He looked at Kyle with complete acceptance, with such tenderness that Kyle felt embarrassed, not because he'd cried but because Stan was looking at him like he loved him so much that his ribs were aching, too.

They were both naked: they'd started sleeping nude at the end of July, to combat the heat. Kyle was beginning to become aroused as Stan kissed his face all over, licking up tears in spots. He hadn't expected to want sex for a while, after the horrid things Cartman had said and with the prospect of actually submitting to them on his mind, but he was glad when Stan's hand skimmed down his over back to fondle his ass, and he smiled encouragingly when Stan's other hand left his cheek and moved down to grasp his stiffening cock.

"You okay?" Stan asked, softly, as if to make sure this was alright. Kyle nodded. He wanted to be touched gently like this, lovingly. Stan's hand left his cock for a moment so that he could turn and get the ointment from the nightstand.

What followed felt more like being rocked to sleep in Stan's arms than their usual 'milking' sessions, though Kyle was very hard throughout, thrusting in weak little twitches against Stan's hand and pushing back onto the slick fingers in his ass. He was normally loud during sex, but the mood was quiet and so were his noises, mostly soft little 'ah' sounds. Stan was quiet, too, whispering.

"You like that?" he asked, and when Kyle nodded: "That feels good?"

"Mhmm." Kyle mostly had his eyes closed, his mouth opening for Stan's hot kisses. They normally kissed before or after their more intensely sexual activities, but this was good, so nice, doing both at once. Kyle felt delirious with the sense of being cared for, coddled, every nerve in his body thrilling with calm, well-protected pleasure. He kissed Stan back with childish eagerness, and Stan laughed warmly against his lips, as if he was impressed by how surrendered Kyle was.

When Kyle came he felt like he'd been hard for an hour, not teased but indulged, drawn out slowly. He moaned in earnest for the first time since they'd started and pressed his face to Stan's shoulder, feeling as if his consciousness had been carefully taken from him, a burden that was eased from his hands. He fell asleep like that, thrumming with cozy pleasure, Stan's hand skimming over his back, and he knew he'd been a panicked idiot before: he would never give an ounce of this to Cartman. Sex meant too much to him, because all of his experiences with it belonged to Stan. His last thought before slipping into dreamless sleep was that his heart had never felt so open or his mind so clear.

In the morning, they lingered in bed to kiss and cuddle, despite their bad breath and the fact that Kyle needed to hurry if he wanted to get a ride to work from Jimbo. Stan joined them for breakfast, which was a homemade granola cereal in milk, made by Sharon, who seemed to have forgotten how to cook. Possibly it was just that her materials were poor, and everyone choked down a bowl anyway, even Tweek, who was looking less haggard than usual. Someone had cut his hair for him inexpertly, but it was still an improvement over the shaggy blond strands that had hung in his face before. Kyle felt reborn as he chewed up his soggy granola, free from the guilt and fear that had been crushing him since they got the letter from Dr. Ahern. Of course he wouldn't let Cartman defile him in exchange for Stan's surgery. If Stan ever found out, he would be too devastated to enjoy the full life that the surgery would supposedly return to him. He loved Kyle too much, and he wouldn't be able to live with what Kyle had done any more than Kyle himself would. Stan caught Kyle smiling at him distractedly and touched his thigh under the table, smiling back.

Kyle's work day seemed to pass more quickly than it normally did in the mornings, perhaps because he was dreading what he would have to do at lunch. He still had to go to the black market to turn down Cartman's offer. It was important, a kind of symbol that he wasn't afraid of Cartman or in awe of his money, and wouldn't be bullied into doing disgusting things for anything. Not even for Stan's surgery. Kyle felt a twinge of uncertainty, then pushed it away. He took his lunch break early.

The black market had changed since the end of the war. It had expanded, with booths outside the old warehouse as well, and frivolities like freshly cut flowers were offered from baskets by strolling girls. Kyle noticed that the fortune teller was still in business. He was tempted to stop into her tent and ask her if he was doing the right thing, but that was ridiculous. He knew in his heart that turning Cartman down wasn't just the right thing, it was the only thing. The fact that he had even considered the other option seemed insane to him as he marched into the 'Supermarket' that Craig and Cartman ran. He was glad to spot Craig at the front counter. Cartman was nowhere to be seen.

"Hi," Kyle said when Craig just stared at him after he'd approached the counter. Craig didn't look well. He'd grown a patchy black beard and his hair had been shaved down to a short fuzz. In combination with the eye patch, these facial hair choices truly made him look like a pirate.

"What do you want?" Craig asked. "This is the customer service desk. I'm not a fucking cashier."

Kyle waited, but Craig didn't flinch.

"You got your chip removed?" Kyle said, alarmed.

"Yep. Now what do you want?"

"Craig-"

"I'm busy, Kyle. I don't stand here to make chit chat."

Craig didn't seem busy; he seemed like he was standing there doing nothing but glowering out at the rest of the market hatefully, as if daring them to come into his store. Screw him, Kyle thought, if he wants to be an asshole just because Clyde doesn't love him back. He realized this was easy for him to say, and internally swooned over the memory of last night, Stan's whispers and his touch, how complete Kyle had felt in his arms-

"Hello?" Craig shouted. "Are you deaf?"

"Sorry, no - I just need you to get a message to Cartman for me. When you see him next, tell him Kyle says no. He'll know what it's about."

"Fine," Craig said. "Now get the hell out of my face."

Kyle left, feeling horrible for Craig. What did he have left, with Bebe and Clyde making their wedding plans together, the war over and his friends all invested in their own personal dramas? He was stuck with Cartman, with his money and his injuries, his anger. Kyle would tell Stan about this later, and Stan would come up with some way to help Craig, to cheer him up and make him feel included again. Maybe they could reunite him with Tweek, who used to be a pretty close friend of his. Stan would know what to do. Kyle was smiling to himself as he waited in line at the bakery for a hot sausage roll, thinking of how they would talk about this later, in their bed, plotting to save another lost soul. He paid for his sausage roll and ate it on the walk back to the hospital. It was delicious, and he was in a good mood when he returned to work, though sweaty.

He worked until seven, and Jimbo and Ned picked him up in the truck, both reeking of plaster and paint from the construction job they were doing over in North Park. Jimbo had been sullen and quieter since the end of the war, and it was always a bit weird to try to make small talk with Ned, who seemed to prefer stony silence and one word answers. They listened to the radio - music, not news - and Kyle was glad when the drive was over. The sun was getting low as he climbed out of the truck, the days already shortening. He was looking forward to autumn, always his favorite season in South Park, and the cooler nights, the changing leaves.

Jimbo and Ned drove away together after dropping him off. They'd taken up a habit of hanging out with a group of guys down at the bar after their jobs, others who were angry about what they viewed as the American surrender, which wasn't an unfair term for how the war ended. The house was quiet, and Kyle remembered that Sharon had an overnight babysitting job across town. Tweek was probably somewhere upstairs; Kyle had no idea what he did all day. He went into the bedroom, glad to see that Stan was there, sitting in the bay window seat and looking out at the yard. Kyle's gladness dissolved with an acidic curdle in his stomach when he saw that the bed was neatly made, the wooden dildo lying in the center.

"Oh," Kyle said, and he shut the door behind him. "Stan-"

"Hi," Stan said. Kyle could see that he was angry. He also seemed a little drunk. There were three empty beer cans on the floor near his chair. "How was your day?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "That's not what it looks like." He wanted to put the dildo away, to hide it again, but he also didn't want to touch it while Stan watched.

"Uh, really? Look, whatever. I don't care. I just don't get why you felt like you had to hide it from me. Like I'm so - I was looking for my old football in the closet, you know, because I'm not totally effing useless, I could still throw the ball around with Jimbo, maybe, and then I found that thing, and I don't know, Kyle, I don't know. Where'd you get it? How much did it cost?"

"It was free." He could feel himself turning an incriminating shade of red. He could never tell Stan it had come from Cartman; it would be too hard to explain why he'd kept it. He wasn't even sure he could explain that to himself. "I just." Saying he'd found it in the mailbox would be too obvious - Stan would guess immediately, like Kyle had, that Cartman had left it there to taunt them, and he wouldn't buy that Kyle had been dumb enough not to realize that.

"You just-?" Stan said, waiting for an explanation. "What, found it on the street? Thought it might come in handy someday?"

"I can't actually explain," Kyle said, after some horrible silence, his heart pounding as he tried to come up with a story. He wanted to kick himself for not having one prepared in case this happened, and he felt worse when he realized that he hadn't bothered because he'd thought, half-consciously, that Stan wouldn't be able to reach the spot where he'd hidden the dildo while sitting in his chair. Apparently he'd miscalculated.

"You can't explain," Stan repeated, slowly, slurring a little. "You can't explain to me where that fake dick came from. Really."

"It's just. Personal, to me. It's a phase in my life that's over."

"A phase in your life that's over?"

Kyle really wanted Stan to stop repeating everything he said incredulously. He nodded.

"Putting that thing in yourself is a phase in your life that's over. Huh."

"No," Kyle said. "I never used it. Because, well. I just didn't trust it."

"And you didn't trust me, either. Not enough to tell me that you wanted something bigger than fingers in you. Okay, yeah. 'Caused I'd freak out, right, 'cause I don't have a dick you can use?"

"Stan," Kyle wanted to cross the room to him, but Stan's energy was so violently negative that he stayed near the door. "No. That's not-"

"'Cause you didn't want to have to talk about it? Didn't want to have a discussion about what I can't do for you? You don't want to hear about what it's like to have a dick that doesn't work, 'cause that would make you uncomfortable?"

Kyle had no response. He couldn't even cry; he felt frozen, guilty, ashamed, but mostly terrified by what Stan was saying.

"Well, too bad for you," Stan said. "'Cause now I'm gonna tell you what it's like, Kyle. And you're gonna stand there and effing listen to me."

"Okay."

"Okay." Stan seemed to waver for a moment. Kyle had always assumed that this was the last thing he wanted to talk about. "Well, first of all, you don't see it, but I try so hard. So effing hard to get it to do anything. With my hand, my mind, everything. I keep thinking, you know, if I can still pee on my own, there's got to be some feeling left there, right? Inside, or whatever? But no, nothing. Effing nothing. And I end up feeling worthless and stupid for trying, and I promise myself I'll never do it again, that I'll just effing give up, but I do, Kyle, I do try again, because-" His voice broke and Kyle moved toward him. "No!" Stan said. "Don't come over here and try to effing coddle me while I tell you this."

"Stan-" Kyle said, but he stayed where he was, near the bed, trying not to look at the dildo, wanting it gone.

"Because it's effing hell, Kyle. Not just not having sex. I wasn't having that much sex before. But the whole time I was in the Army, I was thinking, man, I can't wait to go home and just be able to effing jerk off again. Before bed. I was thinking that the whole time. Just as something for me. To feel normal again, and like, like an individual person who could be alone with his dick, like an effing regular man. And I'll never be that again, I'm not that. It feels like you're defeated, that's what it feels like. And weaponless, and everybody knows, Kyle, I know they talk about it. Like that's why I broke up with Wendy, 'cause I'm this sad, dickless thing now."

"Stop," Kyle said, and then he regretted it. Stan glared at him.

"No, I'm not going to effing stop. Sorry to force you to deal with what's going through my head every minute of every effing day-"

"That's not what I meant-"

"Don't interrupt me! I know people talk about it. Guys in town. I know they say poor Stan, and that must be so hard, and I can't imagine what that's like. And fuck them." Stan grimaced against the shock and punched his thigh so hard that Kyle was afraid it would be bruised. "To hell with everyone's pity all the time. And yours, too. I can see it, you're always so gee dee nervous with me in bed, like you're gonna trip some wire and make me start crying like a little girl because you weren't sensitive enough to my limp dick."

"That's not true at all!" Kyle said, though of course it was, partly.

"Yes, it is, don't effing lie to me. You were never like this before, you didn't hold back what you were thinking. You didn't obsess over my feelings. Now it's like that's all you effing do. And you brought that thing into my house-" He gestured to the dildo; Kyle still couldn't look at it. "-And you didn't even respect me enough to say, hey, I want this, do this with me, no, it was your secret, because you were afraid I'd be _jealous_ of an effing _cock-shaped piece of wood_ , and guess what, Kyle? Guess what, I am, that effing ruined my day when I found that thing, because it's more of a man than I am."

"You know that's not true," Kyle said, feeling stripped down to nothing, as if he should just stop talking altogether. No words were going to make this better.

"Do I? Then why get it, why keep it? Because it's something you want that I sure as hell can't give you. I look at every guy and I think about how, no matter what, he's got what I don't and it makes him better than me. Even effing Tweek, letting guys screw him for money, he's got a dick that works!"

Kyle opened his mouth, but couldn't make himself speak. There was nothing he could say. He just stood there, waiting for more. Stan was crying silently, his face soaked but his eyes steely and cold.

"I'm ruined," Stan said, his voice wavering for a moment. "And I try so hard to be good for you, Kyle. So hard not to make you deal with how angry I am all the time. And I'm so sick of pretending. I'm just effing sick of it. Guess what, Kyle, everything's not going to be okay. You can't expect me to hang out with dogs for a few hours every day and just, what, get happy about life? I'm not happy. I can't even look at my mom. She's all alone now and I can't do anything for her. And I can't do anything for you, not enough, not what you want."

"That's not true," Kyle said. "God, you give me so-"

"I don't want hear it!" Stan shouted. He pointed at the dildo. "Don't lie to me about how happy you are! I found your thing, Kyle! It's right there, okay, and now I know I'm just failing you all the time, too!"

"Don't put words in my mouth! I - I never even used that thing, I don't-"

"Just get the hell out of here, okay?" Stan said. His voice was getting bad, breaking up. "I don't want to go through the whole effing thing again tonight, I can't do it, I'm too drained. Go stay with your dad, and take that thing with you."

"Are you serious?" Kyle asked, stunned. Even at the start of this awful confrontation, he never thought Stan asking him to leave would be the outcome. "You're throwing me out over this?"

"Please," Stan said, and suddenly all the anger in his voice was gone, replaced with a kind of desperate sadness that made Kyle's heart clench, as if a fist had closed around it. "Please, just go. Just go away for a while, I want to be alone. If I'm alone at least I can be this way and not feel bad about how it's hurting you that I'm this way."

"God," Kyle said, starting to cry himself. "Stan-"

"Just go, Kyle! I mean it, please!"

Kyle turned, remembered the dildo, and turned back for the bed. He plucked it from the neatly smoothed sheets, wondering how he ever managed to find it erotic. Now it felt like a murder weapon, the smoking gun he'd used to kill Stan. He left the room and walked out into the kitchen, so dazed with unanticipated despair that it took him a moment of standing there with a dildo in his hand before he noticed Tweek in the kitchen, looking nervous.

"I heard shouting," Tweek said. "Is he okay?"

"No," Kyle said. "But don't bother him. Get rid of this." He pushed the dildo into Tweek's hand and left the house.

The sun was going down, but it was still hot outside, the air still uncomfortably thick. Kyle walked down the street blindly, smelling rain in the air again. This was the season of quick but violent thunderstorms that struck in early evening. He wanted one now, wanted to disappear into the noise and flashing lights, maybe get struck by lightning. He felt stupid for having mishandled the dildo situation, but it didn't really matter. It was good, actually, that the truth had come out. Stan wasn't happy, not even a little. He'd been pretending all the time, for Kyle, for Wendy, and now for his mother. Kyle had thought that he was the one person Stan could be honest with, and that this honesty meant that what happened between them at night was real and good, if not perfect, but that was all just Stan being kind to him, and his kindness had finally worn thin.

The Broflovski family house loomed ahead of him like a haunted memorial to the family's failure. Someone had broken one of the front windows, and Gerald had taped cardboard over it. That used to happen all the time. The door was locked, but Kyle still had a key, on his key ring in his wallet with only one other key, the one to the Marsh house. He unlocked the door and didn't call for his father. The house was quiet, dark, and there was an odd smell Kyle couldn't place, something buttery from his father's most recent meal. They'd barely been in touch since Gerald moved out of the Marsh house. Kyle had just been so busy with work, and with Stan, but he supposed that was over. He'd have plenty of time to reconnect with his father now – they could sit in grim silence together, both of them brooding privately over what they'd lost. He climbed the stairs to the attic and stared for a while at Ike's old bed before dropping into it. Nobody had bothered to wash the sheets. They still smelled like his brother, and realizing this made Kyle's eyes burn with tears again, because it felt like confirmation that Ike was dead.

He couldn't sleep, couldn't move, didn't have an appetite. He didn't have anything, suddenly. He could only lie there breathing in scared little huffs as the full dark of night closed around him, followed by the boom and flash of the thunderstorm. It was over in less than an hour, and Kyle was abandoned to the dense quiet that followed. He heard his father come in, make dinner, go to bed. Gerald wouldn't know that Kyle was up in the attic. It didn't matter; Kyle felt like a ghost, in the company of Ike's still imprisoned spirit.

He rose at dawn, having drifted off at moments, but not into sleep. He'd been plotting, thinking, working things out. Stan had said he was ruined, but he wasn't, necessarily. Not if Kyle could help it.

He tried to make himself look presentable. Would that be required? Probably not, but he washed his face anyway. On the walk to Cartman's house, he attempted to prepare himself by imagining what might be in store. Cartman was nothing if not creative, and this was his specialty: torture. He would tease Kyle at first, make him do something stupid but degrading like licking his boots or crawling around on the floor naked. Kyle hoped he wouldn't be forced to eat anything disgusting, other than the obvious. Ball sucking would certainly be on the menu. Cartman would want to fuck his mouth; Kyle had no idea how one sustained such a thing. Then there would be the main event: anal sex, at last. Cartman's come flooding out of his ass between sessions. He stopped to throw up, but only gagged and spit into the crusty grass in someone's front yard. He'd failed one assignment already as Cartman's slave: he hadn't brought the dildo. He'd probably be whipped for that, but he wasn't too worried about the physical violence. He felt too dead to fear being beaten. It was the spiritual violence that would hurt worst: how Cartman would laugh at his pain, drink his tears, say the things he knew would hurt Kyle most, shred whatever was left of his pride and make little jokes to communicate how much he was enjoying the game.

Kyle stopped again, and stood in front of someone's mailbox for some minutes. What would Stan think if he knew where Kyle was headed? Angry all the time or not, Kyle was aware that Stan would never want him doing this. Well, here was one more thing he could be angry about, when he found out someday. At least now Kyle would have an excuse for being away from him for the duration of his service as Cartman's slave, and time for the bruises to heal before Stan saw him again. He'd have time to stop walking with a limp, too, he supposed, and wincing in pain every time he sat down, and whatever else was in store.

Most of the neon lights in the brothel's front rooms were turned off when he arrived, only a Coors Light sign on the second floor still burning. The brothel also served booze, the kitchen having been transformed into a seedy bar. Kyle should have thought to get drunk before coming. Now it was too late: if he didn't do this now, he'd never be able to stomach the walk toward his soul's demise again.

There was no guard at the front door. Kyle stood at the end of the driveway, wondering if he should knock or just walk in. He closed his eyes and made himself think about Stan, how he would do this for Kyle if he was the one who was broken. Would he, though? Maybe it took a certain sort of moral depravity to be able to sink to this type of sacrifice. The kind that kept the enemy's dildo hidden in the closet for no discernible reason.

He heard the front doorknob turning and startled, his eyes flying open in fear. But it wasn't Cartman coming out to retrieve him: it was Craig, and he didn't seem to notice Kyle at first, heading away from the house and across the lawn. When he turned to see who was watching him, Kyle expected him to just sneer and continue on his way, but while he did sneer, he didn't leave. He came over toward Kyle, carrying a shoulder bag and wearing a jacket that was too warm-looking for this weather, even at dawn.

"What are you doing?" Craig asked. "Trying to work up the nerve to go inside and buy a woman? Or a man?" He smirked when Kyle flinched. "I think they're out of stock on that end."

"I-" Kyle suddenly couldn't stand. He toppled over, toward Craig, who caught him.

"Are you alright?" Craig asked, trying to prop Kyle up again. "What's wrong? You're hurt?"

"I need to sit, I need to-"

"C'mon, goddamn," Craig said, bringing him over to the side of the driveway. One of the prostitutes had left her sun lounger out in the lawn, and Craig sat Kyle down on it. "What's the matter?" Craig asked, standing in front of him. "You look like shit. God, it's great to be able to say shit again. Like motherfucking shit, Broflovski, is how you look."

Kyle said nothing, staring at Craig's knees. He felt like his trajectory was deflected, like he wouldn't be able to go in there now. Relief trickled in slowly, allowing his breathing to normalize a bit.

"Oh, shit," Craig said. "Is this about that money Wendy was after? Were you going to ask Cartman? He'd never - Jesus, you were going to offer a trade, weren't you?"

Kyle looked up at him and raised his lip. If he'd had control of his voice, he could have made a comment about how Craig might have done the same if it was Clyde in that wheelchair.

"You know what?" Craig said, returning Kyle's dirty look. "I've changed my mind. I am going to give you that money. What was it? Twenty thousand, Canadian? Yeah, I'm good for it. And I'm not doing it to save you from Cartman's dick, though the thought of him getting his hands on the toy he's always dreamed of does disgust me. No, I'm gonna give you the money because I hope this doctor can fix Stan right up. I'd love to see that, Kyle."

"Are you serious?" Kyle asked when he could speak again.

"I'm completely serious. We can go to my house right now. I've got it my safe, in cash, safest way to hold on to your money these days." He leaned toward toward Kyle, his single eye unblinking. "And I want you to know, if you accept this money, up front, what I want in exchange for it. Do you want to hear what I want, Kyle? Not your pathetic ginger ass, that's for sure. No, I want to see Stan walk again. I want to see him strutting around confidently, with his fully functioning dick swinging between his legs, because I think I know where he'll be walking to. I think we both know he'll walk right back to Wendy Testaburger. No, fuck that, he won't walk - he'll run. And I want to be there to see your face when you get your turn to know what it feels like to think you can have him, finally have him, only to watch him go running back into the arms of the bimbo who he fucked in high school as soon as he can."

Kyle stared back at Craig, keeping his face blank. He was probably right. Certainly with how things had just ended between him and Stan, going back to Wendy after a successful surgery seemed like the thing to do. It was a perfect transition, really. Now he finally knew why he'd kept that 'gift' from Cartman: it had split time, dividing Stan's life between the miserable Kyle stage and his joyous reunion with Wendy. Kyle would still lose his soul, but not in the way he'd feared. He'd lose it in the way Craig had, turning into a bitter, lonely enthusiast for the suffering of others. But Stan would be happy; Stan would be fixed. Kyle put his hand out for Craig.

"It's a deal," he said, and they shook on it.


	9. Chapter 9

When Kyle got his first glimpse of Dr. Ahern he was embarrassed that he'd assumed she was a man, though that was the pronoun Wendy had used when she spoke of the rumors of a doctor who might be able to reverse Stan's paralysis. Kyle still felt guilty for having pictured a tall, stern-faced man when Wendy brought the actual Dr. Ahern to the reception desk at the hospital and introduced the two of them. It was late, toward the end of Kyle's shift, and he was disappointed not to see Stan with them, though things between the two of them had been painfully awkward since had Kyle moved home with his father.

"This is Stan's best friend," Wendy said. "He'll probably be involved in Stan's recovery if, you know. If Stan turns out to be a candidate."

"Good to meet you," Dr. Ahern said, though she seemed annoyed and looked a little tired. She was short and stout, probably nearing the end of her fifties, with a steel gray bun and a wide mouth. Her eyes were simultaneously sharp and disinterested as she took in Kyle and then his surroundings, the somewhat outdated atmosphere of Hell's Pass. Her flight from Toronto had landed within the hour, and already Wendy was bustling her here to check out her work environment, or maybe they had come by her request. She would be staying with the Testaburgers during her scheduled week in South Park, as all of the hotels had gone out of business or transformed into low rent housing facilities when houses were repossessed.

"Are you meeting with Stan tonight?" Kyle asked, looking up and down the hallway to see if he was wheeling along behind them.

"No, tomorrow," Dr. Ahern said. "I'll examine him in the morning, after I've rested. I hope I can help him. Ms. Testaburger says he's only nineteen years old."

"Almost twenty," Kyle said, and he felt stupid for pointing this out, as if it would lessen her sympathy for Stan's situation. "Um, next month. In October."

"Well, I'll show you where you'll be working," Wendy said, ushering Ahern away from that awkward comment. She gave Kyle the same look of curious confusion that she'd been giving him for three weeks. He hadn't told her about his fight with Stan, and he didn't doubt that Stan had kept quiet about it, too. Kyle told Wendy and anyone else who asked that he was living back at home because he was worried about Gerald's isolation and mental health. In reality, Kyle was worse off on both counts.

The walk home from the hospital was long, the last of the daylight fading into a unfriendly dark blue as Kyle made his way toward Main Street, which was still largely deserted, the farmer's market having packed up hours ago. It was unnerving, being alone in the dark as bugs began to sing in the weeds that grew high along the once-busy road. Kyle cut through Main Street because there were still a few streetlights that faithfully burned, but the shadowy spaces between them seemed to be growing longer every time he came this way at night. He cursed Kenny for being God knew where with the car; he didn't expect to ever see it or Kenny again. He broke into a light jog, wanting to be home, though the home he still held in his heart was that bed he'd shared with Stan all winter and for most of the summer. The days were cooling off, and the nights even more so, but he was sweaty by the time he reached his neighborhood, and not purely from exertion. He'd been afraid that Cartman would lash out in disappointed rage as soon as rumors of Craig bankrolling Stan's surgery reached him, but it had been three weeks and Kyle was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When he reached his house, there was someone waiting for him in the shadows near the garage, but it wasn't Cartman. It was Stan, sitting in his chair and looking anxious, his hands clasping the arms of the chair in an unnatural way, elbows poking out. Kyle slowed his pace, not sure what to expect. He hadn't really been alone with Stan since their fight. He'd given Stan the news about the money from Craig - had given him the money, in fact, piles of cash inside a duffel bag - while Sharon was present, and Wendy had quickly arrived on the scene to celebrate with them. Stan and Kyle had both been reserved, smiling stiffly and avoiding each other's eyes. Kyle had been over to the Marsh house a couple of times for dinner since then, in the company of his father, and he exchanged only a few words with Stan during those meals, mostly the same hollow exclamations about Craig's sudden generosity. Kyle had told everyone that he'd appealed to Craig's honor as a fellow ex-soldier. He could see that both Wendy and Stan were suspicious that he'd done something else, and maybe they assumed that he'd done for Craig what he almost had for Cartman. It didn't matter to Kyle if they thought so. They had the money, and now Dr. Ahern was here, real, a possible solution. And now Stan was in his driveway, staring at him uncertainly, flapping his elbows like a flightless bird while Kyle stared back.

"Why were you running?" Stan asked. He looked down the road in the direction Kyle had come from, then back to Kyle. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Kyle said, still catching his breath. "No one's chasing me. What are you doing here?"

"Wendy said she brought her to the hospital." Stan swallowed; Kyle watched his throat bob. "Did you see her?"

"Yeah."

"So?"

"So - what? She seemed serious. Doctor-like. I didn't know she was a woman."

"Oh. You didn't? I guess Wendy told me at some point. Dumb that we assumed it would be a dude."

"Yeah. Um. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Stan said, slowly, as if he wasn't sure. He stared at the front lawn for a while, took a deep breath and let it out. "Kyle. I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have treated you like that. You're not my therapist. You didn't sign up for this."

"Well." Kyle toed the cement, listening to the bugs for a moment. "I guess it's better than lying to me all the time." He cringed, waiting for Stan to volley that back at him, since Kyle had been the one lying by omission with that dildo hidden in the closet. He wondered what Tweek had done with it. He probably could have gotten twenty bucks for it at the market.

"It's not lying, exactly," Stan said, mumbling. "There's just. Underneath, there's always this dread. And it's not like dreading a test or waking up early to take a shift, it's like the dread of what you already are. So it's redundant dread. But it's still there, all the time."

"Hmm." Kyle kept his eyes on Stan's shoes. It was still so hard to imagine that he couldn't even wiggle his toes within them. "Well, look. You can come in if you want-"

"I don't want to come in," Stan said. "I want you to come back. Home. To spend the night with me. Tomorrow, you know. Tomorrow I have to go see her."

"It's just an examination," Kyle said, his heart beginning to pound. He'd warned himself that this would happen when things started feeling real, when Stan needed a crutch to lean on again. He'd cautioned himself not to fall back into their old routine only to have it blasted apart once Stan was fully functioning and things went back to normal for him and Wendy.

"Kyle," Stan said, and he waited to continue until Kyle looked up at him. "I miss you," he said. It seemed like it hurt him to say so. Kyle nodded.

"Yeah," he said, vaguely. He had a plan in place for this, and the volume of his heartbeat was only half-obscuring his thought process. "I know, dude, I miss you, too. But my dad was really glad to have me back. You've got no idea how much it means to him. To have me here."

"It means a hell of a lot to me, too," Stan said, and Kyle could hear the edge of anger creeping into his voice. He stared, watching as Stan forced himself to tamp it back down. The sight made Kyle's stomach tighten. He didn't want to have to know, now, always, what was going on beneath the surface. "Please," Stan said, tightly. "Please just come keep me company."

If he had phrased it in some other way, Kyle might have caved, but he he'd had a lot of time to grow to resent that concept in the past three weeks. Kyle had been company, a warm and agreeable body, and even Stan had admitted that he hadn't been acting like himself, that he'd tip-toed around Stan's feelings in a way that he never would have before Stan left for war. And if Kyle hadn't been himself, couldn't be himself around Stan when he was like this, it wasn't Kyle that Stan needed. It was just somebody, anybody.

"Can't Wendy stay with you?" Kyle asked. Stan's brow twitched into a frown that quickly disappeared.

"You don't have to come," Stan said. He looked down at his knees. "I know I've been avoiding you, or maybe you've been avoiding me, but I've just been, ah. Ashamed. Of how I acted."

"Why?" Kyle asked, and he had to reign himself in when he heard how harsh he sounded. "I mean, you were being honest, weren't you?"

"Kyle, I was drunk. And upset."

"And honest, I thought. Sounded honest to me."

"Honest, yeah, but-" Stan cut himself off; his voice had begun to rise. "Will you at least come with me tomorrow?" he asked. "When I go to see the doctor?"

"I assumed Wendy would go."

"Well, yeah, I'm sure she'll be there, but so what? I want you there. You've gone through this whole thing with me. No one else has been with me every step of the way." He scoffed, perhaps at his own use of the word 'step.'

"I wasn't, though," Kyle said. "I wasn't in the war."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, just that I wasn't there. And maybe that's why you're so pissed off at me. Like I got off easy or something."

"Kyle, Jesus Christ! That's not it at all! I just want you to come with me and hold my pathetic hand while this doctor tells me if she can save me from this chair or not. Okay?"

"Okay," Kyle said, and he felt terrible, but his resolve to maintain a friendly distance persisted. "I'll be there. What time?"

"Nine o'clock at Hell's Pass," Stan said, and he started to wheel away, his eyes already on the road. "You really," he said, and he paused, his hands going still on the chair's wheels. Kyle often thought about how dirty his hands must get. He refused to wear gloves. "You really aren't coming back with me?" Stan asked, looking at Kyle halfway, from over his shoulder.

"Not tonight," Kyle said. It hurt him to refuse, but he wasn't ready to be alone with Stan again, after what had been said, and he had to protect himself from what might happen after a successful surgery. He hadn't allowed himself to think about would happen if Dr. Ahern told Stan that she was sorry, but she could do nothing for him. "I'll be there tomorrow, though. Nine o'clock."

Kyle couldn't sleep that night, and he couldn't stop imagining Stan lying in bed just as he was, staring at the ceiling, awake with his anxiety. Part of Kyle wished to be with him, but he was afraid to try to approach their previous level of intimacy after what Stan had told him. Kyle didn't want to lie in Stan's arms and doubt the comfort he was experiencing, didn't want to hold Stan while knowing that he wasn't doing Stan much good, that he was just an answering heartbeat that made Stan feel less alone, for better or worse. He had expected Stan to get lonely and try to take back what he'd said, but it was only temporary. If Dr. Ahern could help him, Stan would be back in the real world, and he wouldn't need a private world beneath blankets with anyone, though he would probably have one with Wendy. They had been spending a lot of time together in preparation for Dr. Ahern's arrival. Stan's polite facade had never crumbled in Wendy's presence; they wouldn't have to live with his past as a paraplegic, they could simply move forward. It would be as if none of the bad things ever happened. Kyle imagined that Stan would eventually count their various dalliances in bed as one of the bad things, and Stan would feel guilty about it, but it was Kyle who would live with the shame of having loved it, while Stan had only resorted to it out of desperation, boredom, whatever.

Though he had set his alarm for seven, Kyle gave up on sleep around six in the morning and took a shower. He was too nervous to be properly groggy, but he felt as if his brain wasn't entirely awake as he went through the motions of making himself breakfast. He'd begun to take a kind of hollow comfort in being alone all the time, his work schedule keeping him from even seeing his father much. It was nice not to have to guess what someone else was thinking. The problem was that he didn't know what to do with himself when he had free time: he'd forgotten how to love anything but Stan. He'd been busying himself with trying to resurrect Ike's gaming machine, but it was pretty hopeless. He'd never had a mind for ingenious rewiring the way that Ike had.

He put on something nicer than what he'd normally wear to the hospital for his shifts, a collar shirt that had been hanging in his closet since before Stan came home and his best pair of trousers, which no longer sagged on him the way they once had. He'd been eating more since moving home with his father, and he tended to snack during his shifts if someone brought treats into the break room. He examined himself in the mirror before leaving, not sure what to think. It had been a long time since he'd considered what he looked like, unless he was naked and spread out in bed while Stan watched. His face wasn't as bony or angular as it had been when he was a kid, and his skin was better now, clear. His last haircut had been months ago, and his curls were disorderly, but in a clean and hopefully fetching way. He groaned and walked away from the mirror, disgusted with himself. Today was the day when they would find out if Dr. Ahern could fix Stan or not, and he was worried about what Stan might think of his hair.

By the time he reached Hell's Pass he regretted the shirt, which had long sleeves. It was early September, and cool breezes cut the lingering heat, but they weren't cool enough to keep Kyle from sweating through his shirt on his walk. It only showed under his arms, and he kept them pinned to his sides as he walked to the main desk and asked where Dr. Ahern was working. Before he could get an answer, he saw Stan and Sharon out of the corner of his eye, coming in through the main entrance.

"There you are!" Sharon said as Kyle approached. He gave her a small smile and looked down at Stan, who had also dressed sharply for the occasion, as if it was a job interview. Stan pressed his lips together and gave Kyle a nervous stare.

"You look nice," he said, and for a moment Kyle didn't understand what he meant: the shirt?

"Oh - yeah. Thanks. You, too."

"Wendy told us to meet her up in the office Dr. Ahern is using," Sharon said. "On the third floor, surgical wing - is everybody ready?"

Kyle felt five years old again, buckled into the backseat of the Marsh family station wagon, Sharon turning to ask him and Stan if they were ready to go to the park or the ice cream parlor. They would answer in unison, always affirmatively, ready for anything.

"Ready as we'll ever be," Stan said, and Kyle had to resist the urge to smooth his hand over Stan's hair.

The elevator was enormous and seemed dirty, the buttons cloudy. Kyle hit the one for the third floor and stood beside Stan, Sharon on his other side. They were quiet as the elevator slowly ascended, and Kyle was beginning to feel sick to his stomach. He hadn't really allowed himself to imagine this going badly for Stan. It was easier to obsess over Craig's theory of how things would turn out.

"It's a bad luck day," Stan said. "September 11."

The first attack on American soil, when they were kids. Kyle shook his head and touched Stan's shoulder.

"That's Butters' birthday, though, too," Kyle said. The news of the attack had dampened Butters' sparsely attended tenth birthday party. "So maybe that's good luck."

"I think it is," Sharon said. "You've got a real angel on your side, you know."

Stan offered no response, but he reached up to touch Kyle's hand, then held it. Kyle squeezed, and Stan squeezed back, but when the elevator doors opened he let go. Wendy was there with Dr. Ahern, waiting. Whereas Stan and Kyle had dressed for a business meeting, Wendy seemed to have dressed down in an intentional way, in a modest grey t-shirt and jeans. Kyle could smell her shampoo when they gave each other a stiff hug hello. Her hair was still slightly damp, hanging heavy around her shoulders.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Dr. Ahern said when she shook Stan's hand.

"Thank you so much for coming," he said. Kyle could see some of the soldier in him, then: back very straight, face impassive, handshake firm.

"Well, you paid my fee," Dr. Ahern said, and Kyle decided he didn't like her. "And I'm glad to help when I can. The first step is to see if you're a candidate for the surgery. Would you like to have your mother there while I examine you?"

Kyle was sure Stan would say no, and that he would be insulted by such a babying question, but he nodded.

"We should have news for your friends in an hour so," Dr. Ahern said to Wendy and Kyle, who were standing at tense attention as Sharon and Stan followed Dr. Ahern into the room she was borrowing.

"Thank you," Wendy called, and then the three of them were gone, closed into the examining room. Kyle let out his breath. "Jesus," Wendy said, and she raked her bangs off her forehead. "Kyle. I'm so scared for him."

"I know. C'mon, let's sit. Unless you want to go for a walk."

"No, I want to stay here. I know it will take a while, but I want to be here."

They found chairs in an otherwise empty waiting area around the corner. Kyle had gotten used to the smell of the hospital: bandages and cleaning solution, cottony and acidic at the same time. Still, there was a metallic edge to the scent of the place that seemed newly dangerous now that Stan was enclosed in its walls. Wendy was pretending to read a novel, but Kyle didn't go for any of the gummy magazines that were littered around on the chairs and tables in the waiting room. He just stared at the opposite wall, which featured a poster about how to properly wash your hands. When he started getting too fretful, antsy and overwhelmed by his many Stan-related concerns, he spelled the words on the poster backward. R-E-H-T-A-L, P-A-O-S, A-I-R-E-T-C-A-B.

"Are you still not going to tell me what happened?" Wendy asked when half an hour had passed and Kyle was beginning to nod off, the lack of sleep catching up with him.

"Hmm?" he said, though he already knew what she was referring to. She was staring at him with her righteous investigative look, mouth pinched, the book open and face down across her lap.

"I know you'd gotten incredibly close," Wendy said. "Even more than before. And now suddenly you're living with your dad? Kyle, how. How did you get Craig to give you the money?"

"Oh, gee, Wendy, you dragged it out of me - I let him screw me. Stan took offense and kicked me out of his house. Good job with the guesswork."

"Kyle - what! That's not what I was suggesting at all! God, I would never - what are you even talking about?"

"Nothing, sorry." Kyle groaned and rubbed at his eyes. He was too discombobulated to hear Wendy saying that he and Stan had gotten more close than 'before,' by her estimation. He had no idea what Stan had told her about the two of them, but he had to assume it was virtually nothing. Wendy would have confronted him if she'd heard anything about the way things had really changed between them. "I'm just sleep deprived," Kyle said. "And I've told you - I happened to catch Craig at the right time. I was upset, and I guess it moved him. He marched me to his house and dumped the money into my hands, and I haven't heard from him since. The end."

"Craig must be having some kind of breakdown," Wendy said. "To our advantage. Well, I don't care. Stan deserves the money, this chance. Craig doesn't need that much cash. I'm just - I'm really grateful that you were able to talk him into it."

Kyle knew she was jealous, too, that Kyle had been the one to finally bring home the bacon. He shrugged.

"And I've told you, I'm just helping my dad right now," he said. "Stan and his mom are reconnecting, too. We both needed each other when he first got back, but we've, you know. Things are changing."

"Let's hope," Wendy said, softly.

The next hour passed in excruciating quiet, interrupted by the occasional grating page on the hospital's intercom system, which prevented Kyle from even sleeping thinly. Wendy had given up on her book and was chewing on her thumbnail, eyes glazed over. Kyle kept trying to rearrange himself into a more comfortable position in his chair, but nothing worked. When Dr. Ahern finally emerged, they both sprang out of their chairs and froze in place, waiting.

"Come in," she said, beckoning to them. "He wants you with him when he hears the news."

Kyle and Wendy didn't ask her to clarify, in case she was only speaking to one of them. Kyle didn't care if he'd been invited or if Wendy hadn't - he just needed to know how the examination had gone. Ahern led them to the office she was using, which was connected to the examining room. Stan and Sharon were already there, in front of a short desk littered with files, Sharon standing behind Stan, her hands on his shoulders. Wendy hurried into the chair closest to Stan's wheelchair and dragged it even closer, clasping one of his hands between both of hers. Kyle took the other chair, leaving it where it stood.

"Alright," Ahern said as she dropped into the chair behind the desk. "Let's end the suspense. Mr. Marsh, after seeing your x-rays, speaking to your current physician and examining you today, I would recommend you as a candidate for the reversal surgery."

Everyone exhaled, Wendy with a kind of fluttery exuberance that was very unlike her. Kyle turned to see her locking eyes with Stan, both of them beaming. Stan's eyes flicked to Kyle's, and he smiled at Stan tiredly, happy for him.

"However," Ahern said, and they all turned back to her. "It's a delicate surgery with plenty of risks for every candidate, and in some cases those risks don't become clear until we've already attempted to manipulate the nerve structure. In other words, at this stage, I can only give you a quite unscientific estimate that there is a fifty-fifty chance of the surgery being successful in your case."

"But I thought-" Wendy said, and she shrank into herself, though only for a moment. "I thought you'd had better results than that, with this surgery?"

"So far, yes," Ahern said. She rested her arms on the desk, hands clasped together. "I've had a seventy-eight percent success rate with this method, which is considered very good for a spinal surgery that reverses paralysis. But I can't know what the individual risks are for Stan based on external examination - not completely. I essentially have to open him up and try it, to see how these specifically damaged nerves respond to the treatment, before I can say with confidence that his paralysis will be reversed."

"What happened to the other twenty-two percent?" Kyle asked, not concerned about being rude.

"I was getting to that," Ahern said. "The good news is that there's a very low chance of the surgery proving fatal. I haven't lost a patient to this procedure yet - not in that sense. But for ten percent of the patients I've treated, the glycol doesn't bond with the damaged nerves effectively enough to return any motor function or feeling to the lower extremities. And for twelve percent - and this is why I want you to think very seriously before undergoing this surgery- for twelve percent of the patients I've operated on, the result has been complete paralysis. Complete loss of motor function, even from the neck up."

"Oh, God," Sharon said, and Kyle looked over to see her hands tightening on Stan's shoulders. Stan was expressionless, listening.

"I didn't know that," Wendy said, sounding as if she was making a customer complaint. "Nobody told me that."

"There's not a lot of reliable information about this surgery that's been published in the States," Dr. Ahern said, and Kyle appreciated her not referring to them as 'the former United States,' as some Canadian news broadcasts did. "But I'm telling you, based on my personal experience with this surgery, twelve percent of my patients lost all motor function, irreversibly. Tampering with the part of the spine where Stan sustained his injury is very risky, especially when damaged nerves might be serving as a kind of gnarled blockage against complete loss of spinal function. Trying to fix what's already compromised could create a kind of domino effect that cripples the entire spine, and I'm including brain damage in this, though I've only seen that in two cases."

"Okay, Stanley, no," Sharon said, shaking her head. "I didn't know about this. This is too much."

"Can we get the money back?" Kyle asked, his hands clenched hard around the arms of his chair. "Half of it, at least?"

"Hey, what?" Stan said, and he frowned at Kyle before tipping his chin back to look at his mom. "Guys, calm down. There's still a seventy-eight percent chance that this will fix me. Those are good odds."

"They're not good enough!" Kyle said, too loudly, and everyone stared at him. He flushed and glowered at Wendy. "Right?"

"Doctor," Wendy said. "You're telling - taking all of this into account, the potential for further damage, um. But you're still recommending the surgery for Stan, specifically?"

"Yes. Based on what I can see with x-rays, and based on the nature of the injury as I understand it now, I would recommend the surgery. But what I need you all to understand is that at this point I can only give you a fifty percent _guarantee_ that this surgery won't either prove ineffective or do further damage. And I would need Stan to sign a waiver that tells me he understands just how devastating that further damage could be. Paralysis to the lower extremities is life changing, but complete loss of motor function is something more akin to life ending."

"Where's the form?" Stan said, before Kyle could even process that. "I'll sign now. I'm ready to go."

"What?" Sharon said, and Kyle saw her restraining herself from giving him an admonishing whack on the head. "Stanley, be quiet! She's asking you to consider this seriously!"

"I am, Mom!" Stan said. "I get it, there's a risk, I get that. But I feel like this is right, and she - you feel like this is right for me – right?" Stan said, looking to Dr. Ahern.

"I can't tell you what to do here," she said. "I wish I could tell you for certain that going ahead with the surgery is the right choice for you, but I can't. All I can do is review the data I just presented to you, which you should weigh carefully before making a decision. Unfortunately, my financial commitment here only provides us a week in which to do the surgery and the aftercare, so getting started sooner rather than later would be my preference. I have another commitment in California next week."

"Your financial commitment?" Sharon said, staring at Dr. Ahern in disbelief.

"Look, okay," Wendy said, standing, as if to get between the two women for the sake of Dr. Ahern's safety. "It's a lot to think about. And we understand that we don't have a lot of time, but how about twenty-four hours? And some paperwork we can look over?"

"Wendy," Kyle said as Dr. Ahern went to her briefcase to get the paperwork. "Did you not hear what she said?" He looked at Stan, still reeling from the words _complete loss of motor function_. Stan could lose the use of his hands, arms, tongue, lips - all of it, forever.

"I did," Wendy said. "And it's terrifying. But this is Stan's decision to make. And there's a lot to think about - not just the downside."

"You call that a _downside_?" Sharon asked, and she scoffed. Kyle could sense Wendy's alarm at having offended Stan's mother, and he would have felt badly for her if he didn't think that Sharon was right: Wendy was being absolutely insane. "It sounds like Russian Roulette to me!"

"Mom, Jesus!" Stan said. "What if I don't do this? What if I walk away scared when it could have fixed everything? That's worse."

"That's worse than being unable to move, hooked up to machines that breathe for you for the rest of your life? Really, Stanley?"

"It's an emotional subject, obviously," Dr. Ahern said. She passed a packet of papers to Stan. "And I don't expect your decision to be easy or immediate. I would, however, like to meet with you again tomorrow and see if you've made any progress toward deciding. Ideally, if we go ahead with the surgery, I'd like to do it no later than Wednesday. My flight leaves on Sunday, and that would give Stan four full days of recovery in my care after what I hope would be a successful surgery. I like to work with the local physical therapy team myself during the initial recovery, even if the patient can't do much more than wiggle his toes and flex his muscles at that point."

"That sounds great," Stan said.

"Stan, stop it," Kyle said, so sharply that for a moment he thought someone else had spoken. "You're not even. You haven't even-"

"I'll let you all have some time alone to discuss it," Dr. Ahern said, rising. "I'll be at Hell's Pass for most of the day if you need to contact me, and then, of course, you know I'm staying with the Testaburgers. Feel free to call me with questions at any time, even if it's late at night. I'm here exclusively for Stan, and I want to be as helpful as possible at this stage. I know it's a difficult one."

Dr. Ahern walked them out, and while they waited for the elevator, no one spoke. Kyle was trembling with rage, and he could see that Sharon was barely containing an explosion of parental panic, running her hand over her mouth repeatedly as if to keep it shut. Stan was paging through the paperwork he'd been given, trying to appear casual. Perhaps he truly was calm, decided, but Kyle couldn't accept that. He couldn't let Stan do this if there was even a fraction of a chance that it would leave him dead and helpless inside his body, all that was left of him after the war completely lost. And twelve percent was well more than a fraction.

Sharon had driven Jimbo's truck, and there wasn't enough room in the cab for four people. Kyle hopped in back to ride in the bed with Stan's wheelchair, and he was surprised when Wendy joined him.

"I figure they need a moment alone," she said, and a shouting match between Sharon and Stan broke out as soon as the engine turned over.

"You cannot let him do this," Kyle said.

"Let him? I've got no power over him. This is his decision, Kyle."

"Yeah, great, and how can you encourage him to say anything but 'hell no?' How can you not want to send this doctor on a one way trip to the sun rather than let her mangle Stan with her fifty-fifty surgery?"

"First of all," Wendy said, "It's not really a fifty-fifty shot. She's performed hundreds of surgeries, Kyle, and she's been almost eighty percent successful. That's a very good chance. And based on her experience, based on her successes, and on the failures, too, she recommends Stan for the surgery. She doesn't do that lightly, and she has to warn about the slim risk of a bad outcome to cover her butt-"

"Slim risk! Hundreds of surgeries, and twelve percent ended in total paralysis. So that's what, twenty people who are living corpses thanks to her? Thirty, forty?"

"Yes, Kyle! Twenty, thirty, forty people who were warned about the risks of an experimental surgery and decided it was worth the chance to walk again. Look, am I horrified for him right now, shaken by the thought that things could get worse for him? Yes, but I can't fault him for hoping that he won't be part of the unlucky minority. Not when the doctor recommends the surgery."

"'Unlucky' and 'worse for him' is putting it really lightly. He's had such a hard time just going without what he's already lost - he'd be dead inside if he lost more. Dead, Wendy, it would kill him."

"I know," she said, but he could hear uncertainty in her voice, a new nervousness. They both looked at the window that looked in on the truck's cab. Sharon was still talking, and Stan had stopped responding. He was leaning away from her, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes on the passenger side window. "I just can't believe that we could have come this far," Wendy said. "Getting the money from Craig, getting Dr. Ahern here, having this chance, only to turn our backs on it because - because it could hurt him. I just don't believe it will hurt him."

"Well, blind faith, that's a great road to take when Stan's life is at stake. No, I'm not - I'm not letting him do this. Someone has to make him see that it's too risky. A twelve percent chance of losing him forever? No. Not happening."

Kyle realized he was talking to himself, that Wendy was zoning out and probably obsessing over her own anxieties. He made himself shut up and held on to one of the wheelchair's handles. Suddenly the thing seemed not like an albatross but a symbol of safety, a happy alternative to the idea of Stan strapped into a similar device, motionless, his face slack while his eyes burned with unvoiced rage.

They dropped Wendy off at the shelter, and only then did Kyle realize that it wasn't even lunch time yet. The day had matured into a kind of gray sloom, warm with a dismal cloud cover, and Kyle's stomach was aching, though not with hunger. He climbed out of the truck bed along with Wendy and watched her bid Stan a whispered, near kiss of a goodbye before he climbed into the cab between Stan and Sharon, who both looked like they'd shed a few angry tears since leaving the hospital. Kyle didn't dare speak until Sharon asked if he wanted to be dropped off at his house.

"No," Kyle said. "I need to go to Gregory's house."

"Seriously, dude?" Stan said, and Kyle thought he might start crying again. "You're not going to come over?"

"Of course I'll come over," Kyle said, and he squeezed Stan's arm, comforted by the way Stan's muscles flexed in response. "I just have to grab something from Gregory first. A book for my dad. It will only take a sec."

He didn't actually want to see Gregory, but it was safer to mention his name without giving away his real reason for visiting the house Gregory shared with his mother and Christophe. He promised to be over at the Marsh house in ten minutes or less, and Stan gave him a pleading look from the passenger side window as Kyle walked backward toward Gregory's front door. Kyle didn't expect this to take long, but he still felt bereft as Stan and Sharon drove off in the truck, too far away from Stan on what could be the last day they were ever able to speak to each other, touch each other, and burrow into each other's arms to hide from their respective fears. His previous concerns about growing reattached seemed irrelevant and childish now. Once he was done here, he would spend every second with Stan until he'd convinced him not to throw away what he still had.

Knowing that he might need some help in this department, he asked for Christophe when Gregory answered the door. He was led through the house, out to the backyard, where Christophe was longing in a hammock, smoking a nubby cigarette and reading a French novel that Kyle didn't recognize. As soon as Gregory left them to fetch drinks, Kyle launched into the story about the morning at the hospital, the risks of the surgery, and Stan's idiotically optimistic response.

"You have to help me convince him that it's too risky," Kyle said as Christophe listened in silence, a growing column of cigarette ash dangling precariously over his chin. "Please, dude. He really respects you, and you have some idea of where he's coming from, and he can't do this. We can't let him do this."

Christophe studied Kyle in silence for a moment, and Kyle heard ice clinking in glasses behind him. He turned and accepted a glass of sparkling water from Gregory, mumbling thanks, though he hated the stuff and thought it was a waste of money. Christophe loved it, and Kyle thought he heard a _cherie_ muttered along with the _merci_ he offered Gregory in return for the drink.

"So, Kyle," Gregory said. "What brings you here in such a tizzy?"

"Leave us," Christophe said, making a shooing motion at Gregory with his more hand-like prosthetic. "This is a personal consultation. Your input is not necessary."

Gregory looked hurt, and Kyle felt badly, though he was glad that Christophe wasn't allowing him to get involved.

"Fine," Gregory said, his shoulders going back. "I'll be inside finishing the laundry. Apparently that's all I'm good for these days."

He left, hurrying away with his own glass of sparkling water, and Christophe sighed. He flicked the cigarette into the grass, and Kyle stomped on it before their weedy back lawn could ignite.

"Terrific," Christophe said. "Now I'll have to do some dick sucking, later, to make up for that." He stared at Kyle blandly. "Do you like sucking dick?"

"What - no, I've never-"

"I find it, eh. One of the less appealing aspects of being with a man. There's so little finesse that can be applied. I'd rather fuck, or be fucked. That's more of a direct communication between two bodies, no?"

"I can't believe you're telling me this," Kyle said, not because he was surprised by Christophe's candor, but because it was such a flippant response to Stan's situation.

"The point I am trying to make," Christophe said, rising from the hammock with a grunt. "Is that I will do this thing for him, later, and it will repair his delicate feelings. It will make him feel - whatever we feel when someone sucks our dick. Which is no small thing, my friend. Perhaps you know this feeling, or perhaps you have such feelings about other sexual favors that you cherish as good memories and long to have again. It's not nothing. Look at me, I've got these arcade game parts instead of hands, but I've got this other thing, too, this thing with that ridiculous man who just served us drinks. It's enough to make me wonder how I ever cared so little about whether I lived or died. I understand your fear, and I am afraid, too, for my friend Stan. But you and me - we cannot understand what goes into this decision he will make. We cannot instruct him on this. Only he knows the shape of the missing thing that he wants this surgery to fill."

"Nice speech," Kyle said, though he felt chastised, and knew on some level that Christophe was right. "Lots of noble sentiments in there, bravo, but it doesn't change the fact that there's a twelve percent chance that if he goes through with this, he's a vegetable. Or worse, a fully aware person stuck inside a frozen non-body, watching the world go on without him, counting down the minutes until he can finally just die."

"That's a very vivid description of hell," Christophe said. "And I don't doubt that Stan would long for death if he should find himself trapped there. But I'm not going to go to him and beg him not to spend his last coin on these magic beans. If he heard the same risks that you heard and still wants to try this, what does that mean, huh? It means he feels dead already. And it means that he wants to live so badly that he'll risk his soul for the chance to get back what he lost, because that is what is on the line, I think, with something like this. The soul could not survive inside a dead body, I don't think."

"So at least go to him and say that," Kyle begged, wanting to smash the glass of sparkling water at Christophe's feet to emphasize his point. "Tell him about what he's risking, his soul."

"Do you think that would be news to him, Kyle? Stan is the one facing that loss. I'm sure he sees it clearly for what it is. Don't diminish the fact that he wants to do this anyway. Don't fail to see why it matters that he still has enough hope to want to vault himself over this risk at all costs."

Tired of being preached at, Kyle turned for the house.

"Why do you always come to me with these things?" Christophe called as Kyle walked away. "When I never give you the answers you want?"

"I have to go," Kyle shouted back at him, not wanting to get into it. On some level, maybe he had expected this kind of speech from Christophe, instead of support. But maybe he'd hoped, too, that Christophe's usual philosophizing would ease his panic somewhat. It hadn't, and Kyle almost forgot to get a book from Gregory on the way out, his narrowed vision already tunneling toward Stan. Gregory was indeed folding laundry, working in the front sitting room, neat piles of t-shirts and socks stacked on the sofa and armchair, briefs and boxers on the ottoman.

"Can I help you?" Gregory asked dryly when Kyle stood there staring at him, marveling at the sight of Gregory being so unashamedly domestic, one of Christophe's ratty socks in his hand.

"I need a book," Kyle said, turning his gaze to the short, wall-length bookcase that ran under the room's windows.

"Um, okay. What kind of book?"

"Just – anything, something my father would read. An old history or something."

"Ah. You took your leave under false pretenses? And now you need to accessorize your lie?"

"Why do you have to talk like that?" Kyle snapped. "Yes, whatever, you're right, as usual. Are you going to loan me a book or not?"

"Is everything alright?" Gregory asked, and he sighed, tossing the sock back into the unfolded pile. "Oh – that doctor arrived today, didn't she?"

"Yesterday."

"Right. Wendy had mentioned it. She's very excited. I'm – quite terrified that she's setting herself up for disappointment, but I suppose that's nothing next to your concern for how this experience will play out for Stan. Oh, Kyle – take any books you want."

He took _Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee_ for his father. Gerald had owned it once, and had to get rid of it, because it was deemed 'un-American' by his mother's PR team in their sweep of the house prior to some TV interview. For himself he took _The Joy Luck Club_ , which he remembered eying at a book fair in middle school and passing up because it seemed too gay. Now seemed like the time to reclaim the things they'd been denied in whatever ways they could. He mumbled thank you to Gregory and left before he had to suffer any more insightful comments about Stan.

Not wanting to keep Stan waiting, he took off for the Marsh house in a full run. It felt good, even on a mostly empty stomach, to push himself. He wondered if he should start doing something physical on a daily basis, a run or a bike ride, if he could find a pump to fill the tires on his old bike. He realized he was probably much too big for that thing now, and ran faster, thinking about how guilty he would feel if he returned from a run to Stan waiting in the chair, asking him where he'd been, what he'd been doing.

"Is everything alright?" Sharon asked him when he came into the kitchen, having let himself in through the unlocked door. Kyle nodded, breathless and red-faced, the books hugged to his chest.

"I've just been running places lately," he said, hoping it wasn't insensitive to say so even to her. "Is Stan – where is he?"

"In his room. In your room." She turned from the steaming tea cup that she'd been stirring absently when Kyle came in. "You should stay with him tonight," she said. "I'm not sure what you fought about – it doesn't matter. You have to talk him out of this, Kyle."

"I know."

"I tried. He won't listen to me. He says I don't understand – of course I don't, but neither does he. He has to see above his frustration and understand that he'll come to value his life again someday. That he'll be horrified that he even considered a twelve percent chance at death – at something worse than death."

"I know. I'll do everything I can."

Kyle felt as if he'd failed already as he pushed into the bedroom that still felt familiar, a long awaited homecoming. Stan was in bed, sitting up against the pillows. He was holding the football that he'd been looking for when he found the dildo, and Kyle stopped short after closing the door behind him, not sure if the football was supposed to be some kind of affront, a reminder of Kyle's betrayal.

"Catch," Stan said, and Kyle fumbled the easy pass, both books dropping to the floor. "Sorry," Stan said, but he was smiling.

"You're not allowed to be in a good mood," Kyle said. "Stop it."

"I can't help it. I just called Dr. Ahern. I told her I don't want to spend a whole extra day worrying, and making you guys worry. It's pointless. We're gonna do the surgery tomorrow."

"Stan, no! How did – you're delusional! How did you even call her? I thought the phones were out?"

"She gave me this." Stan showed Kyle a boxy little thing – a cell phone. Kyle hadn't seen one since his mother's state-appointed bodyguards left. "High quality service, down to the last detail," Stan said, spinning the phone in his hand like he'd spun the football. "I guess that's what twenty thousand Canadian gets you."

"I don't think it's ethical for her to operate tomorrow," Kyle said tightly, trying to stay as calm as possible, his fingers digging into the football. "She needs to give you twenty-four hours to let the possibilities really sink in."

"Well, Kyle, what can I say? The customer is always right. I said tomorrow and she said sure thing."

"This is crazy!" Kyle said, shouting, his efforts to hold back crumbling easily. "Stan, I won't let you do it! There's more than a one and ten chance that the worse thing that could possibly happen actually happens to you – this real, solid, permanent thing, and – and you're just – you're fine with that?"

"God owes me," Stan said.

"You don't believe in God!"

"I was on the fence for a while. But I feel like – like you feel when you're saved. Grateful. Like it's already undone."

"This is some kind of, ah – some kind of hysterical, false euphoria, Stan, it's – it's a dangerous overconfidence—"

"You know what? I don't care. You and my mom can throw yourselves at my feet and cry your eyes out, and I know why you're afraid, I get it, and that's why I want to get this over with, so you won't have to be scared anymore. But it doesn't matter if you guys don't want me to do it – Jimbo is all for it, and he's gonna drive me tomorrow, since my mom refuses."

"Of course effing Jimbo would be in favor of this. He thought America would win the war right until the bitter end, didn't he?"

"Eff you, Kyle."

"Yeah? Back at you, effing idiot."

They were both silent for a while, and Kyle could hear Stan's harsh breathing. He knew his was audible, too, rushing between his ears. An insane peel of arousal wound through him for a moment, because it felt strange and wonderful to shout at Stan and be shouted at in return. As if they were equals again at last, as if Stan already had his legs back, his sense of self restored.

"Do you know how badly I want this for you?" Kyle asked, deciding that he had no choice: it was time to play his last card. "This reversal, this miracle surgery, everything undone in the snap of some doctor's fingers?" Kyle took a step closer to the bed, then another, stopping short of the mattress. "I was going to sell myself to Cartman for the money," he said, keeping his voice low and his eyes locked on Stan's. "I was on my way there, to do it, when I ran into Craig. He realized what was up and stopped me. That's why he gave me the money. To save me from that." The truth about Craig's motivation was something that Stan didn't need to hear, but maybe if he heard this, it would be enough to shake his bullshit certainty. Stan stared at Kyle, as if waiting for him to admit this was a cruel joke. Kyle trusted Stan to see that it wasn't.

"Come here," Stan said, dropping the cell phone onto the bedside table.

"Why."

"Come here, Kyle."

Kyle dropped a knee to the bed and crawled toward Stan when his arms opened. He wanted badly to crumple against Stan's chest, and when he sneaked a look at Stan's eyes he knew that he should. Stan pushed out a choppy breath as his arms closed around Kyle, and he tugged Kyle closer, held him tightly, kissed his forehead and ran a shaking hand through his curls.

"I was so scared you would do something like that," Stan said, the smarmy confidence drained from his voice, which now sounded like something that had been balled up and smoothed out, still wrinkled. "I didn't say anything, because I didn't want you to be hurt and insulted if I was just being paranoid, but I was effing terrified, thinking that you might – if he – Jesus, and you didn't – Craig stopped you. Thank God, Kyle. That's worth – that's worth all the money to me. Just that. I would have killed myself if I found out you'd done that for me."

"Stop," Kyle said. "Don't say that, and don't – now, see. You can't go through with this."

"No, it's – if you were willing to do that, if you were even having to think about that, that's just confirmation that I need to get the surgery."

"Stan!" Kyle sat up and boggled at him, horrified. He'd been so sure that telling him about Cartman's deal would work somehow. Stan shook his head.

"You were actually – you were – that you even effing thought about doing that, Kyle – it can't just be for nothing. You want this for me. I know you do."

"I want you to get better, yes, but not at the risk of throwing everything away! It's an insane gamble, Stan! Why the hell can't you see that?" Kyle knocked his fists against Stan's chest, not very hard.

"What makes you think I can't?" Stan asked. "I know it's a gamble. One in ten. I want to do it. I feel like I'm only one tenth of a person most days anyway."

"Stan," Kyle said, and he pinched his eyes shut when Stan pulled him against his chest again, holding him almost painfully close. Kyle didn't care: he liked the ache, wanted to hurt along with Stan, always.

"Never, never," Stan said, murmuring into Kyle's hair. "Never think of that again. Even if I'm dying. Never – anything that would hurt you, and least of all that. I'm not worth it."

"I don't think I was really going to do it," Kyle said, embarrassed. "I was just so distraught."

"I know," Stan said, petting him. "I know you wouldn't have. But that you even thought of it. Fuck – _ngh_." He clenched around Kyle with the shock, and Kyle moaned, feeling as if his chip had fired, too. He clung to Stan and rubbed his shoulder, wanting to soothe him through it, as if a v-chip shock was an important enough pain in the midst of everything else.

"You can't do this," Kyle said. "This risk, this chance, it's too much, I won't let you—"

"That's the thing, though, dude. And I can't explain this to my mom, to anyone but you. But that's why I have to do it, because everyone wants to say 'you can't, you shouldn't.' It's not entirely why, but it's a part of it. I haven't been able to do anything on my own since this happened. I've needed all this help – I've needed all of you so much, and you most of all. But this – I'm the only one who can do this thing, who can take this risk. And it's effing thrilling, Kyle. This is just me – nobody else has to be brave enough to do this. Just me."

"But we – Stan. Don't discount us. You're gambling our lives, too."

"Don't say that," Stan said, and he cradled Kyle more gently, still nuzzling at the top of his head. "You – you'd be so better off without me."

"No. Stupid – no. You don't even know me if you think that."

"Well. I don't know you without me. I've never met that guy, but he might be happier than this guy. You might be better without me. A lot of the time I think you'd be happier."

"No," Kyle said, pulling at the collar of Stan's shirt, holding it over his eyes. "No, I wouldn't. I hate that you think that just because you're different now, you're worthless to me. That's such crap. If I'm ever happy, it's because of you. Even the way things are now. It's always because of you."

Stan said nothing, his fingers still stroking through Kyle's curls. It was warm in the room, but pleasantly so, the worst stuffiness of the summer having passed. Kyle realized he was hungry, though he couldn't imagine eating, not with Stan still resolved to get the surgery. Kyle would have to talk him out of it. Somehow, he'd think of a way. He just needed to close his eyes for a moment. He really hadn't slept at all the night before, and Stan's chest was such a perfect pillow, his heartbeat lulling Kyle into a kind of calm in the eye of this storm, all of his muscles loosening into exhaustion.

"You're so sleepy," Stan murmured, his voice skimming over the surface of Kyle's nap.

Kyle slept without interruption for a while, then woke with a headache. He pretended to still be asleep, slumped against Stan's chest, Stan's hand resting over the back of his head. Someone knocked softly on the door and Stan told them to come in. Kyle kept his eyes closed, almost hoping that it was Wendy, so that she would see the way things really were between them, before it all changed forever, one way or another.

"What are these books?"

It was Sharon, and she sounded like she'd cried again, her voice scratchy and tired.

"I don't know. Kyle brought them."

" _The Joy Luck Club_ , wow. I read this, in another lifetime. Oh, look at him. Is he okay?"

"He's fine. I explained about why I'm getting the surgery. He understands now."

"You're not getting that surgery, Stanley."

"Yes, I am. Jimbo will take me if—"

"I know that. Don't talk to me like I'm stupid. Of course, Jimbo – he just drifts along believing that everything is going to be okay, always, without doubt, and that must be nice. He sleeps with his boyfriend and still votes Republican, why not. You've never been like that, and don't pretend that you're not terrified. This isn't brave, Stan, making this decision. It's the thoughtless act of a terrified child."

"What am I terrified of?" Stan asked, whispering this harshly, his hand tensing on Kyle's head. "Living like this for another sixty years? Yeah, I guess I'm terrified of that, fine. But I'm not afraid of this surgery. I'm not an idiot for thinking it could work. She said so, that doctor – it could."

"Baby," Sharon said, and Kyle could feel the tears welling in Stan's chest at the sound of his mother's weakening voice. "This is too much – I can't watch you walk into another battlefield and know that you might not come back."

"Mom," Stan said, his voice cracking, and Kyle couldn't pretend to sleep anymore. He sat up, blinking tears of his own, and moved away from Stan. "Dude," Stan said, sniffling, and he touched Kyle's back. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"It's okay," Kyle said, and he glanced at Sharon, who was wiping the corner of her eye, sighing.

"You boys," she said, her voice still shaky. "You must be hungry. Let me make you something."

"I can't eat," Stan said. His voice was soft, eyes lowered, his hand still moving on Kyle's back. "I have surgery at nine tomorrow morning, so. I can't eat anything."

"Then I'll make something for Kyle," Sharon said, so sharply that Kyle flinched. She left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Kyle and Stan were silent when she was gone, listening to pans banging around out in the kitchen, the refrigerator opening and shutting hard. Kyle's stomach groaned. Stan was still rubbing his back in a distracted way, sticking mostly to the same spot between Kyle's shoulder blades.

"It's okay if she's mad at me," Stan said, as if trying to convince himself. "Are you?"

"No," Kyle said, honestly. "I'm just scared. I'm such a coward, Jesus. I can't remember the last time I wasn't terrified about one thing or another."

"I can," Stan said, and he smiled a little when Kyle turned to him. "Ey, Terrance? We were going to break them out of prison together, our heroes, when they were in trouble. Remember, our whole plan? The, uh – no, it was La Resistance. Christophe's name for us. We were eight years old and sure that we could do it."

"Oh. Yeah. We didn't, though. We couldn't."

"I know. But you weren't scared. You're not a coward. You're cool even if I'm peeing on you, and you just – handle things, you're strong when I'm an effing mess. And my mom's not wrong. I am scared of not doing this, and I am – feeling like an entitled kid, maybe, like I got cheated out of something I deserved, like this is my chance to get my life back and if I don't do it now, I'll never get this chance again."

"You do deserve it," Kyle said, and he turned away from Stan, letting his heavy eyelids fall shut again. He knew there was nothing he or Sharon could say. He felt it now, as if he'd learned it in his sleep: Stan was as good as on the operating table already. He wasn't turning back for anything. That doctor could have told him he only had a twelve percent chance of surviving the operation, and he still would have signed her waiver. Stan saw the risk as a small price to pay for the chance to have hope again, something to look forward to, the dream of a real future. Kyle understood what Christophe had told him then: no one could come close to understanding what making this decision felt like, only Stan.

Sharon made pancakes and bacon for dinner, Stan's favorite, a special treat when he was a kid and got to pick the dinner menu. Stan didn't eat any, but he sat with them at the kitchen table. Sharon mostly sipped tea while Kyle ravenously stuffed pancakes into his mouth, trying to plug up his anxiety with food. The table eventually filled up: Tweek crept in quietly, drawn by the smell of bacon, and Jimbo and Ned appeared soon afterward, still wearing their paint-stained coveralls. Wendy showed up and squeezed a chair in beside Stan's. She didn't eat much, but offered Stan supportive smiles while he chattered away with Jimbo about the news that marijuana was legal under Canadian law, and that Jimbo's friend Skeeter had some plants, and how they should get in on growing it while they could. Stan spoke as if he'd soon be planting seedlings himself, on his knees in the backyard. When the pancakes were gone, Sharon put the serving plate in the sink and announced that she was going to bed. Kyle sneaked a look at Stan's face as he watched her leave the room.

"I'm setting my alarm for six," she said when she was in the doorway, half-turning back. "I'll drive you in the morning. Jimbo, we'll need the truck for the day."

"Sure, sis," Jimbo said, looking surprised. "But I really don't mind—"

"I'm taking him, Jimbo." She looked at Stan. "Alright? We'll leave here by seven."

"Yeah," Stan said, staring at her with boyish humility, as if she'd just reminded him to clean his room. "Okay, Mom."

The mood at the table was more somber after that, and people began making their excuses to leave. Tweek cleared the plates and started on the dishes, and Jimbo and Ned went upstairs to shower. Left at the table with Wendy and Stan, still gnawing on the last of the burnt crumbles of bacon, Kyle wondered idly if Jimbo and Ned would shower together, if they would even fit together inside the upstairs tub. Sharon had referred to Ned as Jimbo's "boyfriend." It was such a strange, small term for the world those two had together behind their bedroom door, with all its mysterious comforts.

"I'll meet you at the hospital in the morning," Wendy was saying, rising from her chair. "Stan, ah. I'll see you tomorrow." She kissed his cheek, and Kyle stood.

"I'll walk you out," he said.

"Yeah, go talk about me," Stan said, but his smile seemed genuine as he waved goodbye to Wendy.

It was still early, barely five o'clock, the sunlight just starting to turn golden. Kyle shut the front door behind him, and Wendy turned back to him when she'd reached the front walk, sighing.

"I hate this," Kyle said.

"Don't," Wendy said. "It might be the day before the best day of our lives."

"Yeah, or the worst. Wendy—"

"I know, Kyle. I don't need to hear it again. I'm hearing it constantly, over and over in my head, what could happen, what this could do to him. I know."

"He won't change his mind," Kyle said, and she shook her head.

"Come here," she said, pulling Kyle against her. They hugged each other fiercely, as if physically exchanging anxieties. Kyle wondered if she believed what Craig did, that Stan would return to her as soon as he felt like a whole person again. Kyle had forgotten to worry about it, and still couldn't manage to give it any real thought. If it meant that Stan hadn't lost more of himself, Kyle would watch him run back to Wendy with genuine relief. The hurt would come later, slowly, and it would be a paltry thing compared to what could have gone wrong for Stan.

"I'll bring books," Kyle said when Wendy pulled back.

"What?"

"Books. I got some books. For the waiting room."

"Oh. Well, I tried that today – God, was that today?"

"Yeah, this morning. Long day."

"Right." Wendy shook her head. "Well, yeah, bring the books. It's supposed to take three hours."

"What do you think of her?" Kyle asked. "The doctor? Doesn't she seem a little cold to you? Saying she has to be in California in a week to collect another twenty thousand bucks?"

"She's – I think she's a haunted person, and that she bears her burden with professional grace. She's done a lot of good for a lot of people. More good than bad, by far. I like her."

"Alright," Kyle said, unconvinced. "Well, hey. See you tomorrow."

"Stay with him tonight," Wendy said, stepping closer. "He shouldn't be alone."

"I know," Kyle said. It was annoying that she didn't think he knew how to take care of Stan, even now. He waved as she backed away, and watched her climb into her car. She would go home and have coffee with her parents and the woman who would either repair or ruin Stan's life. Kyle was glad not to have to spend the evening with Dr. Ahern, watching her hands as she lifted cup from saucer, wondering which wildly different version of the universe they would open or close tomorrow. Maybe neither: it was still possible that the surgery would fix nothing and also destroy nothing, or that one small thing would be regained, others still out of reach. Kyle went into the house, missing Stan, unwilling to consider the fact that this might be their last night together as two fully human people, or their last night together as something that the word 'boyfriend' could never convey.

Tweek was still doing the dishes, alone in the kitchen. Kyle paused to feel badly for him for a moment: he was so alone all the time. Kyle supposed he knew what that felt like, had been just as alone while Stan was away at war and for the past three weeks, during their rift. He went into the bedroom, feeling certain that, one way or another, that kind of deadened isolation was his destiny. But maybe not – perhaps he would be like a beloved uncle to Wendy and Stan's children. He was sure that was how Stan had imagined Kyle's role in his life, before all this.

Stan was at the sink in the bathroom, washing his face. He gave Kyle a shaky smile after he'd dried off with a towel. Kyle could see his confidence faltering as the sunlight started to fade.

"It's too early to sleep," Stan said, and for a moment Kyle thought that was some sort of innuendo; he felt so far away from all of that now, and his ass clenched at the memory of Stan's squirming fingers, which felt ghostly, like a fantasy of something he'd never actually had. He was sure he wouldn't be able to get hard, not with this hanging over them.

"We could read," Kyle said, lifting _Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee_.

"I was looking at that," Stan said. "Seems depressing. What's the other one? Chinese women?"

"Yeah, pretty much. I think it might be depressing, too. I should have gotten something light hearted."

"No, that's okay. It's not like I'm in the mood for _Go, Dog, Go_ right now or something. Most good stories are a little depressing, right?"

"I guess," Kyle said. He flopped onto the bed, and Stan rolled over to get in. Kyle reached for _The Joy Luck Club_ , picturing Sharon reading it in the backyard, on her sun lounger, while Kyle and Stan ran shrieking through the spokes of the sprinkler. He opened the book while Stan settled in beside him, putting his chin on Kyle's shoulder. "I wonder if my mom read this, too," Kyle said, folding the cover back. "I wonder if they talked about it."

"Maybe," Stan said, and he rubbed Kyle's belly, which was full of pancakes and tender to the touch. "You go first," he said, and his hand went still, except for his thumb, which went on stroking Kyle's little roll of flab. "We'll take turns."

So Kyle spent much of his possible last night with Stan reading _The Joy Luck Club_ aloud. They didn't actually take turns, but Kyle didn't mind. Stan wanted to be read to, and he seemed to be mostly listening, chewing on the joint of his right index finger until the skin was raw and red. Noticing this from the corner of his eye, still reading, Kyle reached over to ease Stan's hand away from his mouth. Stan let it fall into his lap, sighing against Kyle's shoulder.

Stan fell asleep first, and Kyle kept reading out loud for as long as he could, lowering his voice to a near whisper. The sun went down, the temperature dropped, and he pulled the blankets up over Stan before putting the book aside and squirming beneath them himself. Stan was only partly asleep, and he groped for Kyle, gathering him in blindly. Kyle pushed his head in under Stan's chin, his arms curled against Stan's chest.

"I love you," Kyle said, very softly. It was an exhalation like a sigh, something he couldn't not say.

"I know," Stan said, stroking Kyle's hair, his voice thick with near sleep. "I love you, too, dude. That's why I hate to ask what I'm about to ask you, but it's because – it's because you're the only one who'd understand, I think. God, that's true about so many things. Only Kyle would get it."

"What?" Kyle asked, fully awake again. He didn't look up, leaving his face hidden against Stan's throat, where his pulse had picked up a little. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about – look, I wouldn't be doing this if I thought it was going to leave me high and dry. No motor function, whatever they call it. Lifeless, but alive. I don't think that will happen, Kyle, I really don't. But if it did. You'd have to – Jesus, this is terrible, and I'm sorry, but I'm dead serious. I'd want you to kill me, then. Please."

"No," Kyle said, grabbing for Stan's shoulder. "I couldn't. I understand what you're saying, but I—"

"I don't mean in some gross way. Just give me a pill or something. I know they have stuff like that. At the black market, even. Just, if. Kyle, you'd have to, though. This has been so effing hard. Not being able to move at all, even to turn my head – no, I couldn't do that. I could only do that for as long as it would take you to get the pill and put it in my mouth. Will I even be able to swallow? Fuck." Stan jerked, and Kyle could feel how awake he was now, drawn out of his temporary calm.

"Stan," Kyle said, petting his shoulder, panic mounting steadily and quickening his breath. "Stan, maybe. It's okay if you change your mind. It's really okay."

"No, I'm not changing my mind. But maybe – alright, it's too much to ask you to kill me, you're right. Christophe. He'd understand. He'd do it for me – you'd just have to make sure he knows to do it. If this complete paralysis thing happens. Which it won't."

" _Stan_."

"I mean it, Kyle. If that happens – Jesus. I want to get put out my misery quick. If you and Christophe won't do it, I'll – I'll just find some way to drive my chair onto train tracks as soon as I can. Although – wait. Would I be – do they have chairs you can drive with your mind? Ha, like I'd be able to afford that – Kyle, you'd just have to take care of it. Theoretically. Tell me you would."

"You're so cruel to me," Kyle said, finally able to get the words out, though his voice was breaking up, his whole body trembling hard. "The things you say to me."

"I know," Stan said and his voice broke, too, his touch growing clumsier and more urgent as he continued to stroke Kyle's hair, faster and harder. "I know, dude. I'm sorry."

He broke down then, and Kyle managed to beat back his own tears. He scooted up to hug Stan against his chest, curling around him, cupping Stan's wet cheek with his palm. Stan was still so big, Kyle thought, smoothing his hair down. He somehow seemed bigger than ever when he cried like this, his sobs shaking the whole bed.

"I'm sorry," Stan said, again and again, "I'm so sorry, dude."

"Shhh," Kyle said, wishing he hadn't said anything. "It's okay. I like that I'm your whipping boy sometimes. It's because we're so close."

"Yeah," Stan said, nodding, his hand fisting the back of Kyle's t-shirt. "Yeah, that's why. That's the only reason. But I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Kyle said again, whispering. "It's okay, Stan."

Stan cried himself to sleep, and Kyle lay awake staring at the wall near the bathroom, where he'd for some reason been picturing Stan's new, full body wheelchair, and Stan motionless within it, a blanket over his legs, his head propped up with a steel crown. He squeezed Stan closer, tracked the heavy push of his breath, rubbed his face in Stan's hair. He wouldn't be able to give Stan a lethal pill, if it came to that. But he would ask Christophe to do it, and Christophe wouldn't have some pithy speech about the soul in response. He would just do it, Kyle knew, no questions asked.

Kyle woke frequently from bad dreams during the night, and he knew Stan was going through the same thing, shifting in Kyle's arms and sighing against his neck. Most of Kyle's dreams involved trying to find out what had happened to Stan, how the surgery had gone, and being blocked at every turn, in defiance of logic, and sometimes maliciously. In one dream his mother was there, sternly telling Kyle that Stan's surgery outcome was classified information and that Kyle didn't have security clearance. He woke up furious with her, so angry that he felt guilty, though it had only been a dream, and he had plenty of real reasons to be mad at her. Stan was obviously awake, possibly fresh from a nightmare of his own, his breath puffing shallowly against the hollow of Kyle's throat. They both lay there for a while, petting each other tiredly, Kyle's leg pushed between Stan's heavy thighs. The first dim glow of dawn was beginning to show around the border of the curtains. Stan lifted his head and held Kyle's gaze, his eyelids puffy, half-shut. He took a deep breath and let it out.

"Hey, Terrance," Stan said, his voice deeper than normal, creaky and low.

"Yeah, Philip?" Kyle answered, whispering.

"Can I kiss you?"

Kyle nodded and pressed his face to Stan's, closing his eyes. Stan's mouth was hot and slightly bitter, probably because he hadn't eaten. He still tasted good to Kyle, like acceptance and apology, all their secret things poured into one long kiss. Stan's thumb was on Kyle's jaw, guiding him through it, and he was making the saddest little noises, as if the kissing had gotten him almost within reach of something that was still just a bit too far away, evading his grasp.

They took a moment to breathe, chests heaving, noses pressed together, and Stan moved his hand down to Kyle's side, squeezing him there.

"I still think about how they must have been scared," Stan said. "And how wrong that seems, because when I was a kid I was sure they weren't scared of anything."

"Terrance and Philip?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe they were scared," Kyle said, hating the thought himself, "But they knew they were right. I think they knew."

"I know I'm right," Stan said. "I know I have to do this. But I don't want to get out of this bed."

"You don't have to get out just yet," Kyle said, and he kissed Stan again, moaning at how eagerly Stan responded. Stan wanted to lose himself in this feeling for as long as he could. Kyle let him hide there, inside his arms, and kissed him until his lips were throbbing with overuse, fat and wet and tasting of Stan when he ran his tongue over them. He tried not to acknowledge what this felt like, but when Sharon came knocking he couldn't push the thought away anymore. It felt like a goodbye kiss.

Kyle was still wearing his undershirt and boxers from the day before, and he didn't bother to change them, though he still had plenty of clothes at Stan's house. He put on a fresh pair of jeans and one of Stan's t-shirts, dressing in the dark. Not until they made their way out to the kitchen did he look down and see that it was the worn green shirt that he loved on Stan, because it gave his blue eyes a kind of aquamarine tint.

No one ate breakfast or spoke in the truck. Stan sat in the middle, between Sharon and Kyle, who wanted to hold Stan's hand but didn't. The town was still asleep for the most part, only a few other cars on the road as they made their way toward Hell's Pass.

"It's good I'm doing it today," Stan said, the sound of his voice jarringly sudden. "Because tomorrow's the thirteenth. Bad luck."

"Yeah," Kyle said vaguely when Sharon said nothing. Maybe she was thinking the same thing Kyle was: twelve percent, September 12. It seemed like a bad enough omen. He felt like he'd forgotten to do something: take a picture of Stan? Make a recording of his voice? Come in his hand one last time?

The hospital smelled like it always did: like work. Kyle had asked for a few days off and had been granted them, somewhat reluctantly. He'd be useless behind the reception desk today, and maybe from now on. He felt like something had already shifted, separating him from reality. In the elevator, on the way up to the third floor, Sharon grabbed Stan's hand and knelt down beside him.

"Honey," she said, very quietly. "You can always change your mind. Even if they start plugging in IVs and you change your mind then, that's okay. You don't have to do anything."

"I know," Stan said. He kissed her forehead. "I love you, Mom. It's gonna be okay."

"I wrote to your sister," Sharon said, standing, her hand going to Stan's hair, eyes forward. "She should have gotten the letter by now. By the time – by the time she writes back." She didn't finish the sentence. By the time Shelly wrote back, Stan would be walking? Stan would be dead? None of them knew.

Kyle's ability to concentrate on what was happening began to wane as they made their way onto the third floor and found Wendy and her mother waiting with Dr. Ahern. Sharon and Dr. Testaburger hugged hello, and Dr. Ahern started talking about getting Stan prepped for surgery. Kyle kept catching himself zoning out, just staring down at the top of Stan's head. His hair was creased from the way he'd slept, with his head cradled in the crook of Kyle's arm. He had a little cowlick poking up, and to Kyle it seemed like the dearest thing in the world, too vulnerable to what was about to happen.

Dr. Ahern and a nurse took Stan away to get him started on anesthesia, promising that family and friends would get to see him again before he went into surgery. Kyle sat next to Wendy in the waiting area, and Dr. Testaburger left for her shift, promising she would check in every hour. Sharon paced near the door that led to the pre-op area where Stan was being plugged into various IVs. Wendy's heel was bouncing on the waiting room floor. Kyle hoisted the bag he'd brought with a change of clothes for Stan and a crossword puzzle book that had been left on the kitchen table that morning with a note that said 'Good Luck!' on it. Sharon thought it was from Jimbo, but Kyle was pretty sure it was from Tweek. He pulled out _Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee_ and passed it to Wendy.

"You thought genocide would brighten the mood?" Wendy asked, turning the book over in her hands. Kyle shrugged.

"I've got crosswords, if you prefer."

"No, this is fine," Wendy said, pushing her hair back. She looked pale and drained, but her lips were shining with something – maybe just chapstick. Kyle wondered if she would kiss Stan goodbye, too. "Thanks," she said, and she laid the book on the empty seat beside hers. The nurse appeared and ushered them back to see Stan before he was wheeled into the OR.

It was alarming just to see him with a blue surgical cap covering his hair, smiling blearily, two IV drips streaming from his arms and up to bloated bags of clear liquid. Wendy hurried to take his left hand, and Sharon stood at his right. Kyle lingered at the end of the bed until Sharon beckoned to him and pulled him against her, leaving her arm around his shoulders.

"I'm happy," Stan said. Kyle could see that he was terrified, too, his face very white. "This is exciting. I feel good about it. And you're all here."

"We're all here," Wendy said, bending down to kiss his hand, avoiding the bandage that was taped over the IV needle. "And you're gonna do great."

"Yeah," Kyle said, and he was afraid he sounded hollow. Stan turned his head and smiled at him in a knowing way.

"Dude," he said, and he laughed a little, already blinking heavily as the first wave of the anesthesia rolled into him. "You look like you're gonna puke."

"We'll all be here when you wake up," Sharon said, touching Stan's cheek with trembling fingers. "And you'll. You'll be so hungry. As soon as they give me the okay, I'll bring you one of those cheeseburgers you like, from that stand at the market."

"That sounds good," Stan said. "Mommy."

"I think we're gonna take him back now," the nurse said. "He's getting pretty loopy. Say goodbye for now, Stan."

"I love you, honey," Sharon said, bending to kiss Stan's cheek, mostly keeping her voice from breaking apart. "My brave boy. You are brave, Stan. You are." She pushed her way around Kyle then, stepping out of the curtained area as the nurse popped the bed down into rolling mode.

"That's it?" Wendy was saying, still holding Stan's hand. "He's going – already?"

"Dr. Ahern is ready," the nurse said, a little tightly, starting to push the bed. Kyle stepped out of the way, trying to catch Stan's eye, but he was sort of out of it already.

"Dude," Kyle called, and Stan turned his head on the pillow as he was wheeled out of the curtained area. "You're gonna do great," he said, lamely, when he could think of nothing else. Stan gave him a wobbly thumbs up.

"We love you!" Wendy called, clasping Kyle's arm as Stan was wheeled away. Then he was gone, passing through the double doors that led to the operating rooms, staff only. Wendy turned and put her forehead against Kyle's shoulder, taking a gasping breath. "Oh, God," she said. "What have I done? What have I done, really, Kyle?"

"Stop, hey," Kyle said, and he hugged her. "You helped him, that's what. You saw how much he wants this. Just let him have it and hope for the best. C'mon."

"You're so good at this," Wendy said, lifting her face to his.

"At what?"

"I don't know, just getting through this, dealing with it."

"Ha. Well, I'm not as good at it as I might appear." Maybe someday they would all have a laugh about the wooden dildo. Probably not. "Let's go sit down, they're giving us dirty looks."

They settled in the waiting room for the duration. After half an hour, Kyle dragged another chair over in front of the one he was occupying and put his feet up on it. Wendy had taken the crossword book after all, and was working on it with a pinched frown, turned away from Kyle, her knees bent over the arm of the neighboring chair. Sharon couldn't seem to keep still, and kept wandering the halls and returning to ask if Kyle or Wendy wanted anything. Kyle read _The Joy Luck Club_ , actually able to pay attention to the words and lose himself in the story, mostly because he was imagining reading it to Stan, back under the blankets with Stan's chin on his shoulder. He imagined Stan was hearing the words on the page in Kyle's voice, deep in his anesthesia-induced sleep, traveling through the world of the story along with Kyle, distracted from the fact that his spine was being opened and altered, fixed or destroyed.

Kyle had expected Dr. Testaburger to be able to poke her head in and find out how the surgery was going, but it was either against policy or she was too intimidated by Dr. Ahern to interrupt. Kyle supposed it was best that way: let her concentrate. Around the two hour mark, he began to sweat, and at two and a half hours he'd lost his ability to concentrate on the book, and the clock in the waiting room became his personal tormentor, the second hand moving too slowly.

"I'm going out of my mind," Sharon said, springing up from her chair for the fifth time in the past half hour. "You kids – you've got to be hungry. Just let me buy you something downstairs. Bagels? Yeah, okay, bagels. I'll get an assortment. They won't be good, but we can chew on them for a while, it will give us something to do. I'll be right back."

When she was gone, Wendy put the crossword puzzle book down and sighed, rolling her shoulders, trying to get a creak out of her neck. Kyle pretended to concentrate on his novel, not wanting to talk. She sighed again, and her elbow bumped Kyle's.

"How's the book?" she asked.

"Sad," Kyle said. "But good."

"Great," Wendy said, as if this answer annoyed her. "It's got to be – they've got to be able to tell us something, at this point. Don't you think? And – if something had gone wrong – they would have stopped an hour ago. Wouldn't you think?"

"I don't know," Kyle said. "I haven't exactly done this before."

"You don't have to be a smart ass," Wendy said. Kyle felt her staring at him, but he refused to look back, his eyes on the book. "Kyle," she said. "What if it was the wrong thing? The worst thing, and I. And it's all my fault. It was my stupid idea."

"It was hardly a stupid idea. And no one would blame you—"

"Right, well, not nominally, but you know Sharon would want to destroy me, and—"

"Would you shut the hell up?" Kyle said, whirling on her. He felt badly when her face fell; he'd expected to be able to pick a fight with her, to kill some time. "Wendy, I'm sorry. I'm tense. But really, let's not do hypotheticals. It's too late for that. Whatever happens is already – it's happening, it's done. We just have to wait."

Doors opened at the end of the hall, and Wendy and Kyle went rigid like sighted rabbits. Kyle heard Wendy suck in her breath when she recognized the doctor who was pulling off her surgical mask: Dr. Ahern, walking toward them. Kyle wasn't sure he would be able to stand. Wendy grabbed for his arm, and he rose shakily. Dr. Ahern stopped walking, still a few feet away from them. She was smiling. She looked like a completely different person when she smiled: kinder, younger, almost pretty.

"The surgery was successful," she said, and Wendy made a wordless, animal noise of relief. Kyle was stunned silent, unable to accept that this was real: the world had not been so kind to him before, not like this. "At this stage, he's recovered feeling in all of his lower extremities, and my prognosis is – oh, where's his mother?"

"Getting bagels," Wendy said, snapping this in a way that made Kyle laugh, tears pricking the corners of his eyes when he did. "Your prognosis, doctor?"

"My prognosis is that with three to six months of physical therapy, he should be able to walk, run, play football – he should have a complete recovery. His injury was just as I hoped it would be based on the x-rays, a perfect candidate for this treatment."

"Oh, thank God, thank God!" Wendy said, laughing, bouncing a little. "Can we see him?"

"You may, two visitors at a time in the ICU – I'll have his mother paged. Nurse?"

A nurse whose presence Kyle hadn't even registered came forward, smiling at Wendy and Kyle as if they'd just won a game show contest. Kyle felt like he had, that this was some new reality where things were shiny and bright, where he could want something and get it, but it wouldn't feel real until he saw Stan. They were led to a recovery room, past an empty bed to another bed near a window, curtained off from the other. Stan was stretched out there, looking frightfully weak and still very pale, but he beamed crookedly when he saw Wendy and Kyle.

"Stan!" Wendy said, and she hurried to his side, laughing and grabbing for his hand, which was no longer plugged into an IV. The other hand was, however, and Kyle went for it, laying his palm gently over Stan's fingers while Wendy kissed his face and whispered that she was proud of him. Stan turned his dopey grin on Kyle, blinked and wiggled his fingers a little.

"I feel so out of it," he said. "But check it out. Lift up the blankets."

Wendy did so, and Kyle laughed along with her when Stan flexed his feet and moved his toes. Kyle's eyes blurred with happy tears, and he had to stop himself from swooping down to kiss Stan's face the way that Wendy had.

"Look, I can even do this," Stan said, and he moved his knees, shifting his legs slightly. "They're good as new, I just have to practice for a while to get them used to moving again. Where's my mom?"

"She's coming," Wendy said. "She was getting bagels when Dr. Ahern came out – they paged her."

"Jesus, I'm so happy for you," Kyle said, the tears still coming hard, though his voice was mostly unaffected as they soaked his cheeks. "I was scared, but you knew. You did the right thing, dude."

"I was scared, too," Stan said, peering up at Kyle. "I can't stop moving them," he said, peering down at his feet. "Even my butt – I'm clenching my butt nonstop. Sorry," he said to Wendy, who laughed and ran her hand through his greasy hair. "I can't wait to put on pants by myself again," Stan said, beaming up at her.

It hit Kyle then: he wouldn't be needed for the pants, or for anything but his old best friend duties. Wendy was hugging Stan's shoulders, her cheek pressed to his, eyes closed. She'd saved him: she'd done the research, found the doctor, saved Stan's life. It was a gamble, but she'd always been good at making bold moves.

"Would you go find my mom?" Stan asked her.

"Well." Wendy stood and looked at Kyle, as if to ask why he couldn't go. "They paged her."

"She might be in the ladies room or something," Stan said. Wendy laughed.

"Yeah, I'll go." She kissed his cheek one more time. "I'm so happy – I feel like I'll explode. In a good way! Okay, be right back." She jogged from the room, her hair swinging behind her. Kyle looked at Stan, smiled and queued up the speech he'd been practicing for weeks, should this moment come.

"Dude," Stan said, reaching for Kyle with both arms, his voice dropping to an awed hush. "C'mere."

Kyle fell onto him, burrowing in as close as he could get, his face pressed under Stan's jaw, against his neck. He breathed in the antiseptic-laced smell of him, saying goodbye to it. Stan's arms felt more heavy than strong, his energy still sapped from hours of being anesthetized, but it was such a bittersweet comfort to be enclosed within them, and just to have Stan's clammy hand on the back of his neck.

"God, I'm so –" Stan said, and Kyle heard him swallow wetly.

"I know," Kyle said, and Stan laughed. "I mean, yeah, I'm just. I can barely absorb this. I'm so happy for you." Kyle pulled back, still smiling, keeping his expression mild. He didn't have much time – Sharon would be racing in the door any second. "And dude, I just want you to know – I loved being there for you when you needed me. And I always will be, if you need me again. But I just – I know things are gonna change now, and that's totally fine. You have to do what really makes you happy, and now you have all these other options—"

"What are you talking about?" Stan asked. He laughed a little, his brow pinching. "I got – it's all back. I can feel my dick, dude. I grabbed it as soon as I woke up. Is that bad?"

"No." Kyle forced a laugh. "Not bad at all. And that's what I mean. You're gonna – look, you had plans. They got delayed, that's all. I don't expect – I mean – you and Wendy – it's okay, Stan. As long as you're happy, I'm okay."

"Are you serious?" Stan asked, grabbing Kyle's wrist when he tried to move away. "Kyle, I did this for you. The surgery. I didn't want to say so, before, to put it on you, but you're why I wanted this."

Kyle stared at him for a moment, waiting for that to make sense. Stan pulled him closer, until he was sitting on the bed, Stan's arms circling his waist.

"Your letters," Stan said, peering up at him, his voice getting soft.

"My letters?" Kyle thought of the one Stan never got, the one where Kyle basically confessed.

"When I read your letters, during the war. I think I was already in love with you, but seeing – how you were – from far away like that, when I couldn't curl up in a bed with you and help you get warm, it ripped my heart out. All I thought about out there was you, getting back to you. Wendy, me and her had a great time in high school, and I still love her, she's a great friend, but you're the one I ended up falling in love with, okay? It just took a war and all that space between us for me to get it. And everything after, the way we were together, in our bedroom – dude, I want it all back. I want to stay with you. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I just—" Kyle said, and his voice pinched away. He threw himself onto Stan as carefully as he could, not wanting to upset any surgical adjustments, and pressed his face again to Stan's neck, relief on a scale that he couldn't have even anticipated clogging his throat, blocking his words. He could only kiss Stan's neck in frantic little pecks and laugh like an idiot when he leaned back to meet Stan's eyes, which were warm and happy, free from the dread of himself that had haunted him. Stan laughed, too, and he pulled Kyle down again to kiss his face, then his mouth. It was a shy, searching kiss, as if they hadn't done this before. Kyle supposed they hadn't: not like this.

"I know I was weird about showing it," Stan said. "And I'm sorry. I just didn't want to trap you. I wanted you to have an out, if you decided to go have a real life somewhere, so I gave you all these exit strategies in the form of acting like a dick. But I didn't really want you to go. I knew it was selfish, but I couldn't let you go for real. I need you so much, I always will."

"Stan." Kyle couldn't make anything intelligent come out of his mouth, so he just kissed Stan as best he could with shaking lips, tasting his stale breath and hot tongue, so absorbed in the feeling of how much Stan wanted him that he forgot where they were, what was happening. When he remembered he sat up and looked toward the curtain that separated Stan's area from the other bed. He was relieved to see that no one was standing there, witnessing their kiss. "Wendy," he said, looking back to Stan.

"I know," Stan said. He winced. "I really – I think she'll be okay. She's just excited for me."

"Stan."

"I know," Stan said again. "I'm not gonna – I mean, I'll break it to her slowly. Over the next few days. She's smart, she'll catch on."

"I think you need to be more straight with her than that," Kyle said, imagining Wendy having this conversation with Stan, telling him to let Kyle down gently. "She deserves that from you. Maybe not right away, but soon."

"I did try to be straight with her! She tried to kiss me at the shelter."

"What – when?"

"A week ago. I told her, I can't. She nodded and backed off. I thought that was it, you know?"

"Well – you gave her the impression you only rejected her because of your injury. And now you're cured."

"Right," Stan said, looking down at his feet, still flexing them.

"Don't wear yourself out," Kyle said, leaning down to kiss him again. Stan had some stubble on his cheek, and Kyle rubbed his face against it, forcing himself to think of Wendy. Kyle had been prepared to let a fully healthy Stan go: Wendy wasn't. "You really have to be careful with her," Kyle said, sitting up again.

"Of course, dude," Stan said, and they heard the room's door open.

"Stan?"

It was Sharon, rushing to the bed, her arms already stretched toward Stan. Kyle moved back a little to give them space, his eyes welling up when he saw Stan start to cry against his mother's shoulder.

"It worked, Mom," Stan said, his voice tiny and childlike, buried against her. "Did they tell you it worked?"

"Wendy told me," Sharon said, and she sat back to hold Stan's face between her hands, laughing and crying in a way that Kyle was a little embarrassed to witness. He'd only seen his parents like this in grief – and fake grief, too, over Ike's fake death.

"Wendy?" Stan said, sniffling. "Where is she?"

"Out in the hall. They'll only let two people in here at a time."

"Oh – I'll get her," Kyle said, feeling guilty. He was beginning to believe what he'd heard, from Dr. Ahern and then from Stan, that he would have Stan, all of him, and for real, for good. Wendy could have his place in the room – it was the least he could do. Still, leaving felt wrong, and he wanted to rush back to Stan's side as soon as he turned for the door.

"Don't go far!" Stan called, and Kyle promised that he wouldn't.

Wendy was in the waiting room, standing near their discarded things: the crossword book, her sweatshirt, _The Joy Luck Club_ open on the chair Kyle had occupied for hours. Kyle wanted to bring the book into the recovery room and show it to Stan, to ask if he'd heard any of it in his dreams during surgery – he wanted Stan back already, all to himself, but he smiled at Wendy and hugged her, reminding himself that he wasn't the only person who wanted things.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you before," Kyle said when she pulled back. Wendy laughed.

"Like it matters!" she said. "But – thanks. We were just – I'm so happy, though, Kyle."

"You did this for him," Kyle said. "Before, when you were talking about blaming yourself – now it's because of you that he'll walk again, and feel – whole, you did that."

"Like I performed the surgery myself!" Wendy said. "And you're the one who convinced Craig to pay. We would be nowhere without that. Let's face it – we did this together. You should feel proud, too, of how much you've helped him. Is – are they having a moment?"

"What? Oh, no, I think you can go in. I'm gonna take a walk, but I'll stay close."

Kyle wandered the halls in a daze, replaying what Stan had said to him. Had he imagined it? Misinterpreted somehow? No, but he wanted to hear it all again. He needed to, for at least a few weeks, needed to hear constant reassurances, especially about Stan walking again, having it all back. He wanted to ask every nurse, doctor, and visitor he passed: for real? Is this real for you? He kept waiting to wake up, touching things to try to hang on to a sense of reality. He touched a water fountain, drank from it, touched a cart with blankets stacked on it, his own lips. He had a lingering sense that Stan's tongue had been in his mouth, a buzz like the aftershock from his chip when he said something really damning. He kept laughing to himself like a maniac, returning the verge of tears, then laughing again.

He ended up in a garden courtyard on the first floor, not sure how he'd gotten there. He'd gone down some stairs, slowly, savoring the miracle of his feet finding each successive step, gripping the steel handle bar that ran along the staircase. He normally never touched things like that if he didn't have to, especially at the hospital: there were germs everywhere. But he wanted his hands on everything, wanted to feel this moment solidify in a very literal way.

The courtyard was small but cheery, surrounded by the hospital on all four sides, five stories towering overhead, windows on patient rooms looking down at him. He peered up at the third floor, trying to remember if Stan's room had an interior or exterior view. Of course he didn't know: he hadn't spared the window a glance.

He looked up higher, at the sky. There were some light gray cloud patches, but the sun was breaking through in spots, the clouds sailing by at a good clip, high wind. Kyle closed his eyes, wanting to feel the wind that the hospital walls kept out. He was hungry, and it was delightful to allow himself to be concerned with such a thing: he would have normal things again, would eat bagels and go for runs around the neighborhood, maybe with Stan, who would start reminding him that he shouldn't be alone, that there was danger everywhere, and that Stan wanted to stand guard against it. Kyle would have better than normal, too. He'd have Stan, every exceptional inch of him. It was still a frightening thought, a dream of the kind of outlandish happiness that he'd long ago shelved, and Kyle went back into the hospital, afraid of flying too close to the sun.

Waiting for the elevator back up to the third floor, he was surprised when the doors open and Sharon got off. She smiled and stepped out to give Kyle a hug.

"There you are," she said. "I'm on my way to the house, to give Jimbo and the others the good news. Of course the damn phones are still out. I'll stop by the market, too, and bring back some cheeseburgers for everyone. You should go up – but you might want to wait a minute. I think he wanted to talk to Wendy."

"Talk—? Oh."

"Yes," Sharon said, and Kyle wasn't sure if she understood. Did she think Stan was renewing his marriage proposal? She had seen Stan holding Kyle the day before, but maybe she saw it as a brotherly gesture. Kyle thought of Ike, who he'd never held like that, and his stomach pinched. There was still so much brokenness all around them, and soon Wendy would be wandering in that outside land, too.

Sharon left to spread the good news, and Kyle lingered in the third floor waiting room for a while, trying to read _The Joy Luck Club_. He kept expecting Wendy to run past the room in tears, forgetting her sweatshirt, but maybe he had missed her. Finally he couldn't wait any longer, and he went into Stan's room. He was alarmed to find the other bed now occupied by a hairy man in a hospital gown who looked at Kyle like he was intruding. Kyle hurried ahead to Stan's side of the room, pulling the curtain shut behind him, surprised to find Stan alone.

"Wendy left?" Kyle said, taking Stan's hand. Stan nodded and squeezed. Someone had draped the blanket back over his legs and feet, but Kyle could still see him twitching his toes and thighs restlessly, as if he would lose them again if he stopped.

"I had to tell her," Stan said, squeezing Kyle's hand again. He sounded very tired, and his eyelids had gotten heavy, his head resting on his pillow. What had transpired since he woke was probably far too much stimulation, and Kyle began to feel worried that they'd impeded his progress with their drama. "She was talking about me moving in with her, since Dr. Ahern is staying there and her mom does orthopedic therapy. She was saying it would just make sense for me to live there for a while, during my rehab."

"Jesus," Kyle said, and he sat on the bed, pulling Stan's hand into his lap.

"Yeah," Stan said. "I just couldn't – I'm too damn tired, I couldn't come up with an excuse, so I told her the truth. I said I want to stay with you, because, you know. We're together." He looked at Kyle uncertainly, as if he wasn't sure that was the right word. Kyle grinned and leaned down to put his forehead against Stan's.

"I'm glad you told her," he said. "But, God. What did she say?"

"She said 'oh.' Then she just stood there looking like I'd punched her, so I started rambling. I don't even know what I said – something about the letters, and how you've been so good at taking care of me, and how I just – never realized how much I wanted to do things with you until you were too far away to touch. I probably shouldn't have said that part. I'm kinda high, I think, from painkillers."

"Oh, Stan," Kyle said, smoothing his hair back and kissing his forehead. He wanted to muster more anguish for Wendy, and he knew that he would eventually, but being able to touch Stan like this at last – openly affectionate, sexual and non-sexual at the same time – was distracting him from gathering all the empathy he knew he should have. "Then what?" Kyle asked.

"Then she just kind of stared at me for a while, and I blathered some stuff about how much she means to me and how much I value her friendship – God, but it's true – and she did this weird angry laugh and said she knew about me and you, that she wasn't stupid, but I think she was bluffing, trying to save face. Could you go find her? She seemed so out of it, I doubt she's gotten far."

"I think I might be the worst person to try to comfort her," Kyle said, flushing at the thought. If Wendy had come to him after Stan had agreed to Kyle's proposal to back away – he would have flayed her.

"But who else could?" Stan asked. "You're the only one who understands the situation. Please, dude, just have a look. I'm really worried about her."

"Alright," Kyle said, annoyed that he had to leave Stan again. He felt he should be burrowing into the spot that he had so recently been invited into, attaching himself firmly to Stan's side, cozy and shameless. But he was ashamed, because he was tripping over his own joy while Wendy suffered somewhere. He kissed Stan's lips briefly – teasingly, he hoped, though Stan was probably too groggy to get it – and stood. "Your mom is bringing cheeseburgers," he said, patting Stan's hand. Stan smiled.

"I think I'm gonna sleep for a while," he said. "Tell Wendy I'm sorry."

"Yeah, I'm sure she'll appreciate hearing that from me. Okay, I'm going." He kissed Stan's cheek again before he did.

He searched the third floor first, though he doubted she'd remained so close. When he couldn't find her he grabbed her sweatshirt from the waiting area and took the elevator down to the first floor. As the elevator descended, he gave the sweatshirt a curious sniff. Girl sweat was something he'd had minimal exposure to, but he remembered noticing, when he was younger, that it was different from boys' sweat in a way that put him off and made him feel not repulsed but excluded. It made him jealous, maybe, the smell of Wendy that lingered on her sweatshirt, because it was something Stan had desired, once. Now Stan said he wanted Kyle – wanted to _do things_ to him, he'd said, which shouldn't be so shocking, since they'd already done plenty. But to hear Stan say it so frankly, and without that haunted anger in his eyes, was another matter entirely. Kyle whined to himself as the elevator doors opened. Selfishly, cruelly, he didn't want to find Wendy. He wanted to go back to Stan.

He knew that was wrong and felt badly about it, so he kept looking, in the cafeteria and the courtyard, which was still empty. Finally he ended up in the parking lot, weaving through the cars, and he spotted her near the entrance to the hospital's front drive. She was sitting on the curb, and for a moment Kyle thought it couldn't really be her, because she was smoking a cigarette, but he recognized her pale blue t-shirt.

On the walk toward her, he tried to come up with something to say. It all seemed insulting when he weighed it against how he would feel if he was in her position. He'd been so prepared to be there, alone on the curb, or so he'd thought. Some part of him had rejected that resignation all along, and he suspected that part of her had been afraid to believe that reversing Stan's injuries would truly turn back time.

"Hi," Kyle said when he sat down on the curb beside her, not too close. Wendy glanced over at his knees and then looked back to the road. She dragged on the cigarette, inhaling smoke like she did so all the time. "I didn't know you smoked," Kyle said.

"Christophe and I used to," she said, looking down at her shoes, a pair of ratty sneakers that somehow looked feminine and attractive under the cuffs of her jeans. "In high school, before he dropped out. He would come harass Gregory after our Students for World Peace meetings. I thought he was so cool, and I would have a cigarette with him just to piss Gregory off. I guess I had a crush on him." She looked over at Kyle. "Does that surprise you? I was dating Stan at the time."

"No," Kyle said, not sure how to otherwise respond. He was surprised, but only a little. "You were just kids. What – fifteen? I know Christophe dropped out as soon as he turned sixteen."

"Just kids, you're right," Wendy said. "And you know the funny thing, Kyle? When Stan proposed to me I was terrified. I didn't want to get married – Jesus, I was barely eighteen years old. But he was leaving for war, and he was so earnest, such a sweetheart, and so scared, too, I could see it. The whole time he was away I was fretting about what I would do when he got back, how it would go, if we would actually get married or if that was just some moment of – mutual hysteria, his proposal and my acceptance. And then he came back – broken, and I just. I felt like I'd cursed him, because I was so ungrateful. You don't know what you've got until it's gone, et cetera."

"Of course," Kyle said. "I mean, that makes sense."

"And once he was – hurt, God, I felt so sure that I'd missed my chance, my one chance to have this amazing life he would have given me. I wasn't even sure I wanted kids, but suddenly it was all I could think about, what a good father Stan would have been, what our babies would have looked like. Jesus, I was so sentimental." She tapped ashes into the street and was silent for a while. Kyle got the feeling he shouldn't interrupt. "It's not like I didn't think of it," she said, looking over at him. "That he might be in love with you. I'm not blind. Even before – but I thought, fine, he loves Kyle in this – 19th century, romantic male bonding way, but he doesn't want to actually have _sex_ with Kyle." She looked away from him and took a drag. "Has he kissed you?" she asked, and he understood that it was a polite way of asking about their sex life.

"Yeah," Kyle said, and he was pretty sure he shouldn't say any more. Wendy nodded. On the road, a monstrous semi thundered by. Kyle hadn't seen one in a long time, but government relief from Canada had been trickling in recently, trucks like that bearing supplies that would be passed out for free or in exchange for ration stamps.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Wendy said. "It's not like I even remember what it felt like when he belonged to me. If he ever did. I take it you two weren't already fooling around, back in the day?"

"Of course not – no. Only since he came home, um. That's when we got closer."

"Right. Yeah, it would take something like that. He saw you as so innocent, before. He just wanted to protect you – everyone was always out to get Kyle, poor Kyle, all alone in the world. You should see his letters, the ones he sent me from the front – I should give them to you. They're like love poems – to you, not me. Wendy, is Kyle okay? But is he _really_ okay?" She scoffed, but it was more sad than mean. "Well, I'm glad – I'm glad he told me. Good for you two. And God, this has got to be some kind of world record – if you count Christophe, I've driven three men who were once at least partially interested in me into the arms of other men."

"I think that just means that most men are interested in you," Kyle said. "You're really – you're better than the way South Park has treated you."

"Don't pity me," Wendy said, and she gave Kyle a look that made him think a physical attack was imminent, but only for a moment. Wendy was a pacifist, after all. She flicked her cigarette into the street and stood. "I'll visit him in a few days," she said. "I'm not mad at him. Tell him that. I'm mad at myself, I guess. But then again – if I hadn't been so effing single-minded, so obsessed with fixing things and getting them back to whatever I took for granted before, then maybe I wouldn't have found Dr. Ahern. I am happy for him," she said, staring at Kyle as if waiting for him to challenge her on this point. "I just hate – not anticipating my own humiliation. Miscalculating."

"I know," Kyle said. "He's really – I hope he didn't lead you on. I know how he can be. Flirty."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "I'll be fine," she said, and only then did her voice seem to thicken. "Tell him that."

Kyle stood and passed her the sweatshirt. She frowned at it like she didn't know what it was, then balled it up in her hands.

"He loves you so much," Wendy said. Kyle felt like he'd been socked in the stomach with this information, coming from her. "When he told me about you – about you and him – he was shaking. And not because he's scared of me, he isn't. He just – it was like he was overwhelmed by how true it was. You could tell it was the first time he'd said it out loud. Or second, I guess. Since I suppose he told you first."

She turned to go, back into the parking lot to get her car. Kyle stood on the corner near the big sign for Hell's Pass and watched to make sure Wendy pulled out onto the road safely. He believed that she would be okay, and what she'd said about the circumstances of her engagement to Stan made sense. But Kyle had known Wendy since she was four years old, and she'd always kept her hurt close to her chest, protected by justifications and rational analysis.

Kyle hurried back to Stan, and when he got there the hairy man in the other bed had disappeared. Kyle was glad, and hoped he wouldn't be back – for twenty thousand dollars, Dr. Ahern really should have secured Stan his own recovery room. Stan was sleeping, and there was a young nurse with a mousy ponytail near his bed, taking readings from the monitors.

"Is he okay?" Kyle asked. He might not believe it for years without constant proof. The nurse smiled and nodded.

"I don't know if you recognize me," she said. "But I used to be in Shelly's Girl Scout troop. I remember you guys running around the house, you and Stan. A million years ago, before the war. You two and that little fat kid, the one who runs half the market now – you used to plot these elaborate missions to come and steal the refreshments at our troop meetings."

"Oh," Kyle said, disturbed by the memory, because it included Cartman, back when he was not innocent but not nearly as corrupted as he would eventually become. "Yeah, that's. Hi, sorry – I'm Kyle."

"I know," she said, and she laughed, shaking his outstretched hand. "Everyone knows who you are, Kyle. I'm Becky."

"Nice to, uh. See you again. Sorry we stole your Girl Scout cookies."

"That's okay," she said, and she smiled down at Stan, who was snoring softly. "I'm really glad he's doing so well. Dr. Ahern will probably examine him again in an hour or so, but I'm gonna let him rest."

"Can I stay?" Kyle asked.

"Yeah, of course. At this stage, we encourage a family member – or friend – to stay with the patient while he's recovering, so you can let us know if he needs anything. I'll be across the hall at the nurse's station."

"Thanks," Kyle said, and he was glad when she left, though she seemed nice and did look vaguely familiar, like one of those South Park girls who had always been in the background, given little attention by Kyle. He sat down in a chair near Stan's bed, wishing he'd thought to bring _The Joy Luck Cub_ back from the waiting room on his way in. It didn't matter, though: he wouldn't have been able to concentrate on the pages. He scooted the chair forward, careful not to make enough noise to wake Stan, folded his arms on the bed and rested his chin on them. He watched the steady rise and fall of Stan's chest until Sharon appeared with the cheeseburgers. Dr. Ahern followed her into the room, and Sharon set the burgers aside, pending approval.

"He can eat that," Ahern said, pulling Stan's blankets down to check his muscle reflexes. Stan was groggy, half-awake, his legs twitching wherever she prodded them. "But just go slow. Coming off of anesthesia can cause nausea, so milder food might be better. And I told Stan this earlier – Sharon, I think I mentioned it to you, too, but I want to reiterate: be careful not to set off your v-chip." Ahern was talking to Stan, who nodded, blinking heavily. "Avoid even the mildest curse. It's usually not an issue, but I've seen a few post-surgical cases where v-chip shocks cause setbacks." She looked at Sharon. "It's really a very dangerously irresponsible technology. I think we've only seen the beginning of the havoc those chips going to wreck on this generation."

"Well," Sharon said, her mouth quirking as if she was withholding some cursing herself. "We weren't told that. Our government wasn't truthful with us."

"Oh, I know," Ahern said. "I don't blame the parents. It was an unfortunate cultural phenomenon."

"That's one way to put it," Kyle said, thinking of the hundreds of thousands of lives that had been lost or irrevocably derailed because of the war. Ahern glanced at him.

"I know who you are, Mr. Broflovski," she said. "And I have great sympathy for what you've been through. All of Canada does, believe it or not." She turned back to Stan, leaving Kyle red-faced and staring at the linoleum floor. "Stan," she said. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," Stan said. "Kind of achy."

"I'll adjust the morphine drip," Ahern said. "The next few days will be the most painful, and you might have shooting pains in your legs and back. Let me know if you do. It's not unusual or anything to be alarmed about, but it's something we need to monitor. Do you have an appetite?"

"Sorta," Stan said. "It's like – the burgers smell good, but my stomach feels weird."

"Yes, that's normal. Have some of the bun, perhaps."

She left, saying she would be back in a few hours to do the final checkup the day. Kyle tried to find a clock: he felt outside of time, as if it was simultaneously night and day, an approaching afternoon thunderstorm obscuring the sun. The view from Stan's room was exterior, facing the mountains. He ate the top bun off his burger, and some of the meat, then promptly vomited it all up. Kyle summoned Becky, who assured them this was normal and helped them clean up.

"That girl remembers us from when we were kids," Kyle said when she'd left. Sharon was running a cool cloth over Stan's forehead, and he was looking a little green but not terrible. He reached for Kyle's hand, and Kyle took it, his face heating.

"Mom," Stan said. "I told Wendy about me and Kyle."

"Oh?" Sharon looked at Kyle, who blushed more deeply but kept hold of Stan's hand, moving a little closer to him. "Was she – she thought you were going to pick up where you left off?"

"Not exactly," Stan said. "But she wanted me to stay with her and her parents for a while, to get live-in care. And I was like, I can't. I want to be with Kyle." He smiled up at Kyle, clearly feeling good again, the morphine doing its thing.

"Honey," Sharon said. She folded the cloth in half and laid it across Stan's forehead. "That was good of you. Wendy deserves your honesty. And Kyle does, too," she said, looking at him.

"Jesus," Kyle mumbled, too embarrassed to stand. He sat on the side of the bed, and laughed nervously when Stan hugged him closer, still smiling in a drugged-out way, his eyes falling shut. "Can we both stay the night?" he asked. Sharon nodded.

"I think so," she said. "But I might go home and sleep for a few hours. The past few days – I've barely slept at all. Will you be okay here with Kyle, baby?"

"Yeah," Stan said, and he smiled a little more widely, eyes still closed. "Mom, of course. Ha."

Sharon left after Dr. Ahern's final checkup of the evening, when she proclaimed Stan to be doing well, recovering normally. When she'd gone, Kyle listened for signs that the hairy man had returned, and was disappointed when he heard him clearing his throat on the other side of the curtain, adjusting in bed and flipping on the TV. Kyle took off his shoes and climbed into the bed with Stan, carefully. Stan was smiling at him, looking dopey and sweet, and he curled his arm around Kyle's shoulders as Kyle settled carefully against him.

"You need to stay on your back, right?" Kyle said, whispering. Darkness had fallen outside, after a brilliant sunset that had made Kyle teary-eyed with vague, nostalgic God thoughts.

"Right," Stan said. "For a week, I think she said. And no cursing. Remember to tell me not to curse."

"Don't curse," Kyle said, and he leaned over for a kiss that Stan returned as best he could, his lips clumsy, tongue sluggish. "I feel like I'm dreaming," Kyle said when he pulled back, still whispering.

"I know," Stan said. "But we're not. Let's agree that we're not."

"Yeah, agreed."

They were quiet then, and Kyle wondered if it was an awkward quiet, if they'd moved too fast in the wake of Stan's post-surgical drug regimen, but he made himself calm down. They'd always been able to be quiet together. After Stan first came back from the war, they'd curled up together in silence for hours, and Kyle had never questioned it then. He touched Stan's hand, and both of them watched as their fingers threaded together, as if it was some naturally occurring phenomenon that was out of their control.

"Did you find Wendy?" Stan asked.

"Yeah. She's okay. I mean, she will be."

"Kyle?"

"Yeah?" They were both still staring at their joined hands, flexing their fingers, pressing their palms together, apart, then together again. Kyle could see Stan's feet moving in anxious flinches under the blankets.

"Did you really think I would try to get rid of you?" Stan asked. "After I was better?"

"Not – rid of. I just thought. Maybe you were doing it all out of sadness. And if you weren't sad anymore, you wouldn't want to do those things with me. Anymore."

"First of all," Stan said, squeezing Kyle's hand. "I'm still gonna be sad sometimes. It's not like everything that happened just got erased. Butters is still dead, and my dad, and your mom, and maybe Ike. I'm gonna have to relearn how to walk – I can't even lift up my legs yet, can't even get my heels off the mattress. But I want to go through all that with you. Everything hard that happens to me, all the disappointments and setbacks, I want you there with me to make it okay. You make it okay for me, Kyle. The reason I was so angry, before – the biggest reason, was that I couldn't do the same for you."

"Sure you could," Kyle said.

"No – c'mon. You know what I mean. I was this boulder you were always lugging around behind you. And I wanted you to cut me loose, because it hurt to see you struggling like that, trying to pull me over obstacles, trying not to cry when I was so heavy that I hurt you, but then I would realize that I was the one who was hanging on, too scared to let go of you. No, wait, it's like — it's like you were the only light I had in this whole new universe where everything was just pitch black, all the time, everywhere, except for the light that was you, this little thing between my palms. And, like – I knew I should open my hands, right? To let you fly away to some better place, where everything wasn't terrible all the time, but I would be alone in the dark if I did, so I kept my hands closed around you. I felt so bad about that, all the time, but I wasn't brave enough to let you go."

"Dude," Kyle said, and he brought Stan's hand up to his lips, kissed his knuckles. "You sound high. But, I – I appreciate that. Hearing that, or. I just love you, okay, so—"

He broke off there, not feeling as articulate as Stan had somehow managed to be, and kissed Stan on the mouth in lieu of saying something equally weighty. Stan kissed him back, and Kyle could feel how tired he was, but when he tried to pull back Stan followed, his hand cupping Kyle's cheek as the kiss continued. Kissing Stan was starting to feel normal, which frightened Kyle, because easing into normal feelings seemed like bad luck, a jinx, and because he didn't know how he'd ever have the energy to endure a normalcy that was this good. He'd grown up with the other kind, slogging through thicker mud every year, and all his survival instincts were geared toward living without this kind of comfort.

"You're thinking too much," Stan said. Kyle hoped the hairy man couldn't hear how hard they were breathing, or the wet sound of their kissing. "I can tell. You kiss different when you're thinking about something else."

"You can't read my mind," Kyle said, though the idea that Stan could was actually nice, like a safety net.

"I know," Stan said. "But I've gotten good at reading other things." His hand skimmed down toward the small of Kyle's back, and Kyle shivered, embarrassed but pleased. He pressed his face to Stan's neck and sighed. "Haven't I?" Stan asked, and Kyle grinned, charmed by how uncertain Stan sounded.

"Yeah," Kyle said. He licked Stan from his Adam's Apple to the point of his jaw. "You have."

"How come you like licking me so much?" Stan asked. It was a non-judgmental question, earnest and sweet.

"Mhmm, I don't know. It's like those scented markers we had when we were kids. How they smelled so good you just wanted to eat them. Even real food, even candy didn't taste as good as they smelled. Remember?"

"I guess," Stan said. "I think maybe you liked those markers more than I did."

"Ha. Fine. But it's like – this forbidden thing that you can't help wanting. That you fixate on, even though you know you shouldn't."

"I'm not forbidden. You can lick me all over."

"Shh!" Kyle moved up to speak directly into Stan's ear, whispering. "There's a guy over there."

"Oh? Yeah, I guess I knew that. What's he in for?"

"I don't know! He's got bushy eyebrows and lots of black leg hair. He walks around in his hospital gown."

Stan laughed, and Kyle did, too, rolling more snugly against him. He was tired, ready for sleep. He felt like he hadn't really, truly slept in about a year. He could sense that Stan didn't want to surrender to unconsciousness yet, his hand moving restlessly over Kyle's back, up along his neck and into his hair, but he knew that Stan needed rest more than he did.

"Wendy said to tell you that she's not mad at you," Kyle said.

"I didn't think she was," Stan said. "I'm just worried she'll be sad and feel abandoned, like the third wheel. She should have given Gregory a chance. Then everything would have worked out. Maybe."

"Maybe. And maybe Gregory still would have fallen in love with Christophe. Anyway, not everyone finds their soul mate in South Park. I think she'd do well someplace else. She's had too many half-starts here."

"I'd miss her," Stan said.

"I know. But I'm sure she'd visit. Her parents are here. Jesus, listen to me. Making an alternate life plan for her, like it's my business."

"She would do the same for you," Stan said. "In a helpful way, you know. Wendy always wants to help."

"You have that in common with her," Kyle said, thinking of Tweek. "Speaking of which, I'd like to do something for Craig. Not right away, because I think he's still in a bad place." Kyle thought of how Craig would react to the sight of him and Stan together in Stan's hospital bed, cuddling and having pillow talk, still close. Would he really hate them for it? "Maybe when you're walking again, after your rehab," Kyle said.

"I don't want to wait that long to thank him," Stan said. He moved his legs, turning his knees out a little.

"You could write a letter," Kyle said. "And promise to thank him in person when you can walk up to him and shake his hand."

"Yeah. That's a good idea. Tomorrow – will you bring me some paper and a pen?"

"Sure, dude."

They both dozed off to the sound of the Stan's roommate watching Canadian news broadcasts, which was pretty much the only thing on TV where it was available. Neither of them slept deeply. Stan wasn't used to sleeping on his back, and the pain woke him at intervals anyway. When it did, Kyle walked out to the nurse's desk in a half-awake daze and asked for someone to come give Stan more pain medication, but Becky had gone off shift and the night nurse was stricter about administering meds only according to schedule. Kyle was so tired that he dropped into sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow again, but he was also jumpy, and if Stan shifted or sighed beside him he woke in a panic to ask what was wrong.

"I think I've reached my quota for complaining," Stan said when Kyle found the cloth Sharon had been patting him with earlier and re-wet it with some drinking water. "I mean, it's good, it's cool that I can feel pain again, you know? And it's not that bad. It's really not."

"Tell me if it gets bad," Kyle said. "Do you still have the phone Dr. Ahern gave you?"

"Yep, a direct line. But it's okay, dude. You should sleep."

"I think it's almost morning," Kyle said, though it was still pitch black outside and he had no clock to confirm this. He left the damp cloth on Stan's forehead and settled down onto the pillow again, his own back aching from curving around Stan within the small amount of bed space he had. Kyle's minor discomforts were almost pleasant, with Stan at his side. He was reminded of when he'd been sick as a kid, but not very sick, just enough to stay home from school and be cared for by his mother, taking his meals in bed.

"It's so weird to feel this again," Stan said, reaching down to cup the soft bulge of his cock. "I mean, not weird, just good - like when the blankets move, and. When you kiss my neck."

"Mhm," Kyle said, grinning. He nipped at Stan's jaw, feeling shy about it. Things would be different now. They had a kind of future together, and there was a nervous energy building in Kyle's chest as he continued to return timidly to this idea. He put it away quickly every time, not wanting to get ahead of himself. "You should shave tomorrow," Kyle said, touching Stan's stubble. He'd never liked the look of it, because he'd never seen much of it before Stan was in the wheelchair.

"I want to wash my hair," Stan said. "I don't know how I will. Damn, it's still going to be weeks before I can stand up on my own. Maybe a month. She starts talking about the physical therapy and my mind just blurs over all the details. All I can think about is how she's telling me it will work, that it's just a matter of time."

"That's right," Kyle said, softly. He felt a kind of unspoken pressure mounting between them, and he decided he needed to squelch it sooner rather than later. "And in the meantime," he said, his hand skimming down along Stan's chest and stomach, until his fingertips were resting lightly over Stan's crotch. "There's this. Unless you'll need - to rehab, um? Those nerves, too?"

"Nah, I don't think so," Stan said, whispering, and Kyle could feel it: he was getting bigger under Kyle's fingers already, harder. Kyle sighed hotly and glanced at the curtain separating Stan's bed from the other man's. The TV was still on, but the man was asleep. They could hear him snoring.

"We could wait," Kyle whispered, massaging Stan slowly, his own cock getting hard as his heart started to pound with excitement. "Till, you know. If you want."

"No, I want to try it," Stan said. He gave Kyle a nervous smile. "It's stupid, I guess."

"It's not stupid." Kyle thought of what Christophe had said. "It's not nothing. This is an important, you know. Part of enjoying, uh. Life." Stan's cock was getting very hard now, and Kyle was gripping him more firmly. He felt like he might blow his own load just from reaching under the blankets to feel it in his palm, skin against skin. "Is, um. Are you allowed to - it won't mess things up if you come?"

"No," Stan said, and he smiled. There was enough light from the monitors to show Kyle the flush that bloomed on his cheeks. "I asked her about it before you guys came in, when I was still super high. I remember what she said, though: it's fine to climax as long as you don't curse."

"God," Kyle said, his face getting warmer. They both laughed quietly. Kyle was still rubbing Stan over the blankets, afraid to reach beneath them. For so long, Stan's cock had been a kind of holy object of suffering, not something to even be looked at intentionally, let alone touched. Now it felt real and powerful, like something Kyle wasn't sure he was prepared to experience. He took a deep breath and made himself calm down. It wasn't like he was going to climb on top of Stan and ride it: this was just touching.

"You can - here." Stan pushed the blankets down. He wasn't wearing underwear, just a hospital gown. Kyle hadn't considered that until now. Stan moved the gown out of the way, pushing it up to reveal his erection. Kyle stared, holding his breath, then glanced at the curtain to make sure they were still alone. When he looked back, he tried to properly absorb this moment, its huge significance, and the sight of Stan's cock, which was hard for him, wet at the tip, waiting. Kyle hesitated, and Stan reached for it himself, sighing and letting his eyes fall shut when he stroked himself. Kyle moaned as softly as he could manage and rubbed his own erection on Stan's thigh, watching. "God, Jesus," Stan whispered, and it was like he was praying, his thumb sliding slowly across the slickness that was bubbling out of him already. Kyle bit Stan's shoulder gently, to keep from groaning loud enough to wake the hairy man.

"It feels good?" Kyle asked, not sure how to handle this. He wanted to grab for Stan's cock himself, but was afraid to, as if his greedy curiosity about the way the foreskin felt would impede Stan's progress.

"So good," Stan said, murmuring this. He turned his face against Kyle's, his breath hot over Kyle's cheekbone. "You can - if you want."

"Oh - okay." Kyle reached for him, telling himself not to be such a baby. It was just that, despite everything they'd done, he'd never touched a hard cock before, aside from his own. And this was _Stan's_ , resurrected just for him. As soon as his hand was gripping the shaft, Kyle's fear dissipated and his mounting arousal broke over him like a wave: he groaned at the feel of the foreskin when he pumped, so different from his own mechanics. The texture against his palm was the most erotic thing he'd ever experienced, and he felt hypnotized as he leaned down to put his tongue on the tip, lapping at pre-come. Stan sighed in a very labored way, as if he was holding back an avalanche. Kyle suckled on the tip of his cock and the avalanche was unleashed: he took some into his mouth but most in the face, hot and thick, more come than he'd ever seen.

"Oh, fuh, fuh, fuh," Stan was saying, his head thrown back, and Kyle hurried to shush him before he'd even wiped his face.

"No cursing," Kyle said, grabbing for the cloth that had tumbled off of Stan's forehead. "Careful, shh."

"Yeah, right, I know," Stan was staring up at him from beneath heavy eyelids, panting, his dick still out and just beginning to flag, come dribbling from the tip and pooling on his belly. "Kyle. _Kyle_."

"I know," Kyle said, grinning. He shuddered happily, still cleaning his face. "Jesus, it's everywhere."

"Seven months worth," Stan said, and he rubbed his hand through the slick on his stomach in a lazy, self-congratulatory way.

"God, it was only seven months?" Kyle began helping him clean up, starting with the tip of Stan's cock, which made him hiss and arch. Kyle wanted to see that again, do that again, wanted the whole thing in his mouth this time, though he knew it wouldn't fit. He wanted to see Stan come a second time more than he wanted to come himself.

"I didn't think you'd go for it with your mouth right away," Stan said, and Kyle assumed he was being teased, but Stan was looking at him with sincere wonder.

"Me either," Kyle said. "It was just. I wanted to - you know how I am about licking you."

"Yeah. C'mere. Oh, you're hard."

Kyle snorted. "Well, yeah." He humped Stan's thigh. "That was hot."

"Yeah?" Stan hugged Kyle to his side, still sticky. He would need a sponge bath: Kyle would do that, if the nurses would let him. Would they tell the nurses that they were together? He realized that the hairy man had stopped snoring, and whispered _shhh_ against Stan's lips before kissing him. Stan groaned, presumably at the taste of his come on Kyle's tongue.

"We have to be quiet," Kyle whispered, though he didn't really care. He snaked his hand down to unzip his pants, pulling his cock out through the slit in his boxers. "Yeah," he said when Stan groped him, his hand sneaking in to cup Kyle's balls.

"I'll get hard again," Stan said. He'd softened only halfway, his dick still dark and fat.

"That's okay," Kyle said. "You need, um. To let it out. All of it. Yeah," Kyle sighed, pressing his face to Stan's shoulder and pushing his hips forward, fucking Stan's hand with drowsy need. He came with a whimper that was slightly embarrassing, pushing out an impressive load himself. It had been weeks since he'd even beat off. He couldn't imagine how intense Stan's release had felt, and he wanted to know, but he was too busy kissing Stan to ask.

Stan came again, in Kyle's hand this time, Kyle now feeling slightly self-conscious about the fact that his mouth had gone to Stan's dick like it was magnetized. Stan was so exhausted after a second orgasm that he fell asleep before Kyle had even finished cleaning him. Kyle slept, too, under the blankets, his pants on the floor.

They woke at dawn and pawed each other again, but Kyle could see that Stan was in too much pain to properly get aroused. He put his pants back on and went for the nurse, who consented to give Stan a fresh dose of morphine. Stan slept again afterward, and Kyle sat by the window, watching the sky grow lighter over the mountains. He could smell the oncoming autumn weather even through the hospital room murk: cool mornings, warm afternoons, nights that were chilly and cozy but not yet icy, everything lit with a golden glow until the first snow came. Something about the change of seasons made him miss his mother. He'd been too caught up in taking care of Stan to even mark the first anniversary of her death at the end of spring.

Sharon and Dr. Ahern appeared shortly after sunrise, Sharon with treats from the best black market bakery and Dr. Ahern with the good news that Stan was still doing fine, healing normally. Stan was out of it, mumbling and yawning, and Kyle worried that the room smelled like come. Sharon suggested he go home and shower, change his clothes, but Kyle didn't want to leave Stan's side that long. He begged off another shift at the reception desk, getting a long look from the head nurse this time, and went down to the gift shop to get writing utensils for Stan's letter to Craig. They spent the morning nibbling on pastries and working on the letter together.

"He really did this for both of us," Stan said at one point, his chin on Kyle's shoulder while Kyle tapped the pencil against their draft. "Even if you weren't really going to go through with it with Cartman - I know you weren't - Craig didn't know that. He saved you, too, as far as he knows."

"Yeah," Kyle said vaguely, remembering Craig's threatening snarl as he wagered that a successful surgery would send Stan running back to Wendy. "Well, who knows what he's really thinking. He wasn't exactly magnanimous when he gave me the money. He made a comment about my pathetic ginger ass." Kyle winced when his chip fired, feeling guilty, as if this would set Stan's off, too. He'd meant to stop cursing during Stan's recovery, in solidarity with him.

"He puts up a tough front," Stan said. "I did that, too. You feel like it will make things easier, keep people at arm's length. But it hurts to feel yourself changing like that. Poor Craig. I wish he'd come see me."

Craig didn't come, but Stan did have several sets of visitors that day, all of them bearing gifts. Jimbo and Ned arrived first, and Sharon and Kyle had to wait outside due to the visitor restrictions, but Kyle could hear Jimbo blubbering through happy tears from the waiting area. Jimbo had sprung for a fancy bottle of scotch that he could only show Stan for the time being, promising to drink it with him soon. Bizarrely, Ned had knitted him a scarf. It was good to see Jimbo acting like his usual upbeat self again, and he came out into the waiting area to cry some more and hug both Kyle and Sharon again.

"It's a miracle," he kept saying. "A god-damned miracle, and Stan deserves it, doesn't he?"

"Yes," Kyle said, again. "He certainly does."

Jimbo and Ned left for a construction job, and Christophe and Gregory appeared after lunch time. Gregory had constructed a fussy but thoughtful basket of things Stan might want to have at the hospital: a selection of books, some fancy soap that smelled like ginger, packets of cookies and crackers, an electric tea kettle, tea bags and a mug. Kyle was stunned by Gregory's generosity as he picked through the basket, having sneaked into the room along with Gregory and Christophe. He figured he could claim that one of them was visiting the hairy man if a nurse came in and hassled them about the number of people in the room.

"Now I guess you won't be taking your chances with the v-chip removal, eh?" Christophe said while Kyle examined the tea selection.

"Don't give him any ideas," Kyle said, casting a pleading look at Stan.

"Oh, no, I don't care about that," Stan said. "I think I was too chicken to really go through with it before, too. I just liked to rant about it when I was pissed off."

"Have you sent Wendy on some errand?" Gregory asked. "I didn't see her out there with your mother."

"She's gone home for now," Stan said, and he left it at that. Christophe glanced at Kyle knowingly.

"You should go hang out with her," Kyle said to him. "She was telling me she used to have a crush on you."

"What!" Gregory said.

"Yeah," Stan said. "I could tell. She'd show up smelling like cigarettes. We got in a big fight about this junior year. I thought maybe you guys were boning."

"Ha," Christophe said. "How flattering. But I don't like women."

"He means sexually," Gregory said, looking a bit panicked. "He likes women, of course, as people. He's a feminist."

"Gregory wants you to know that he only gets fucked by feminists," Christophe said. "This is important to him."

"Don't be crude!" Gregory said. They shared a heated look that Kyle was slightly uncomfortable to witness. "Anyway, that's true. I wouldn't be with someone who wasn't - who didn't share the morals I hold dear. But that's neither here nor there - let's return to the subject at hand, shall we? Stan, I take it you'll begin your physical therapy soon."

"Yeah," Stan said. "Tomorrow, I think. But it's just going to be lying on my back and letting a nurse bend my knees and move my legs around for a while."

"Baby steps," Gregory said, and he wrinkled his nose. "Sorry, bad pun. But it's such a fantastic thing to watch someone make progress with that kind of therapy. I've missed overseeing patients."

"He's volunteering to be your nurse, I think," Christophe said.

"Jealous?" Gregory said, and that look passed between them again. Stan snorted.

"I've got plenty of nurses," he said. "But I hope you guys will visit a lot while I'm baby-stepping around. I should be home in a week."

"A week?" Kyle said, deflating, and chastising himself for being greedy. He'd spent much of the night in that uncomfortably small bed dreaming of their queen-sized mattress at home, not to mention the privacy of having the room to themselves. "That long?"

"Well, not a whole week," Stan said. "But Dr. Ahern wants to keep me here until Saturday, working with the physical therapists, then she's gonna supervise my move home, then she's gone."

"What a strange and wonderful arrangement," Gregory said. "The way she was able to come here, fix you up, and then she'll fly off like Mary Poppins, taking her magic somewhere else."

"Ah, god," Christophe said. "Listen to yourself."

"No, I like that," Stan said, grinning up at Gregory. "That's a cool way to think of it."

Kyle felt nervous in the coming days, afraid that they were relying on a fantasy of tidy resolution that would evaporate when this cinematic chunk of time ended and the lights came up in the theater, revealing sticky floors and scattered popcorn, the magic gone. He was rarely away from Stan, except when he was on shift and during his bolted showers and clothing changes at home. Gerald kept saying he would come visit Stan soon, but he was busy with what Kyle assumed was work. On Friday, when Kyle was jogging down the stairs on his way back to the hospital, Gerald stopped him before he could grab the handle on the front door.

"Kyle, can we talk for a sec?" he asked. "I've barely seen you in a week."

"I have a shift," Kyle said, lying. He'd finished his shift hours ago, had come home to change and now was making his way back to Stan's side, where he belonged. He felt weird about the way his father was looking at him, sadly and from a distance, as if Gerald was closer to the place where Kyle's mother and possibly Ike were, far from Kyle's reality.

"I've found a buyer for the house," Gerald said.

"Are you serious?" Kyle scoffed. "Who the hell wants to live in Sheila Broflovski's disgraced former home?"

"Eric Cartman, it seems," Gerald said, and Kyle felt the color drain from his face. Gerald sighed. "I know you don't like it, and I'm not happy about it, either. This was your childhood home, and Ike - but I can't look a gift horse in the mouth. I need the money, and he's offered to pay in cash."

"So, what?" Kyle said, huffing. He backed up against the door, feeling ill. If Cartman bought the house, he would be allowed into the bedroom where Kyle first touched himself to thoughts of Stan, and the bathtub where Kyle's mother had sung to him as he pushed toy boats through islands of bubbles. "You're telling me to get out, so you can hand our home over to Cartman? Evicting me? How long have I got?"

"Kyle, calm down-"

"He's just trying to screw with me, Dad! He'll never - he thinks - but whatever, fine, like I care. He can have this place. At this point it's got more bad memories than good."

"Kyle!"

Kyle left, slamming the door behind him, and he took off for the hospital in a run, feeling shattered. He just needed to see Stan. When they were together, Cartman couldn't hurt Kyle with things like this. He ran faster, trying not to imagine what Cartman's filthy plans for Kyle's childhood home would be. A museum devoted to the evils of Sheila Broflovski? A brothel with Kyle's family named attached to it? Or maybe he would just burn the house to the ground and piss on the ashes. Kyle told himself it didn't matter: his home was with Stan now, and that house wasn't for sale.

He was breathless and dizzy when he got to the hospital, and the elevator seemed to take ages to ascend to the third floor. He hurried toward Stan's room, and was surprised when he saw Bebe in the waiting area. He hadn't seen her in months, and she was as radiant as ever, dressed in a very adult-looking gray shift, her hair chin-length now, gap-toothed smile widening as Kyle came near.

"Hey!" she said, walking forward to hug Kyle. "Whoa, you're all sweaty."

"I was running," Kyle said. "What's up? Did you come to see Stan?"

"Yeah, I just took my turn with him. Clyde's in there now, with Tweek. Too bad they can't move him to his own room. I'd like to have a party in there for him - Kyle, I'm so happy."

"I know," Kyle said, and they embraced again, more tightly. "It's, just. It's like a good dream. I keep being afraid it will end."

"Well, it sounds like he's doing great," Bebe said, pulling back. "So don't worry too much. It's amazing how much his spirits have lifted, though of course that makes sense."

"Yeah," Kyle said. "And the morphine helps. Though I guess they've taken him off of that now."

"Kyle, what's wrong?" Bebe asked, laughing a little. "You look kind of stricken."

"It's nothing." Kyle didn't want to get into the news about Cartman buying his house, not until he'd parsed it with Stan's input. "How's Wendy?" he asked, stepping closer to her. "She said she would be back to visit Stan in a few days, but we haven't seen her since Tuesday."

"Oh, man, I wouldn't know," Bebe said, shaking her head. "We've been so involved with our own shit, planning the wedding, and Gregory's on my ass every five seconds about my mayoral campaign."

"You're really doing that?" Kyle said, and Bebe laughed at his expression.

"Yeah." She shrugged. "It's worth a shot. What have I got to lose, right? And I have some ideas about the town, you know, I'm not just some meathead soldier."

"I know you're not," Kyle said, though he had begun to see her that way, perhaps because of her association with Clyde, who certainly fit the description. "Gregory's your campaign manager?"

"Of course he is! It was all his idea. But I'm not just his puppet. And he's smart, he's got ideas, too - lots of ideas. We were talking about getting Wendy involved, but we haven't been able to get in touch with her. I know she was pretty invested in getting this doctor here for Stan - I'm surprised she hasn't visited."

"Think about it for a moment," Kyle said. Bebe nodded.

"He told her something about you?"

"Yes, the main thing, which is-" Kyle had to pause; he hadn't said it out loud yet. "Which is that we're - me and him. We're together."

"Oh, Kyle." Bebe smiled and squeezed his shoulder. "I'm glad. I still think about the night of Butters' going away party. How lost you were."

"You have no idea," Kyle muttered, thinking of Cartman. He hated the idea that his childhood home was another space that Cartman would invade, with his fucking money, his blunt determination, his pointlessly passionate lust to see Kyle in ruins.

"Wendy will get over it," Bebe said. "She was really freaked when Stan proposed to her. Not ready for that, really. She does love him a lot, but I think it's more sisterly than she realizes. Look, but I know it's hard. We've still not been able to get Craig to speak to either of us."

"I just want to be happy for myself," Kyle said, and he rolled his eyes at how idiotic that sounded. "But I can't stop thinking about her. She was so excited to get him back."

"Maybe, but she's a pretty selfless person, and I know she's happy for him. I'll go see her tomorrow. She's supposed to be my maid of honor, after all. We'll shop. It'll be fine."

Kyle nodded, though he wasn't so sure. Clyde came out of the room, and Kyle was annoyed to see that he was eating one of the bags of cookies from Gregory's gift basket.

"Stan looks great," Clyde said, tossing an arm around Bebe. "He'll be ready for football season before we know it."

"Ha," Kyle said, and he glanced at Bebe, who smirked. She'd always managed to be unoffended by Clyde's stupid comments. "You know, it was Craig who paid for Stan's surgery." He wasn't sure he should have shared this, but it was too late to take it back.

"Damn, really?" Clyde said. "I didn't know they were friends."

"They're not, really." He glanced at Bebe, wishing they were still having this conversation alone. He wanted to tell her about Craig's purported motivation for funding the surgery, but not with Clyde listening. "I'm gonna head in there," he said, flicking his head toward Stan's room. "You guys have a nice evening."

"Hey, you too," Clyde said. "Let us know if Stan needs anything."

"You're registered to vote, right?" Bebe said, and Kyle nodded. He'd done it as a package deal when he attempted to register for the Army. "Cool," she said, and she held up two fingers: the peace sign. Kyle couldn't remember the last time someone had flashed it at him. "See you guys around."

"Vote Stevens!" Clyde shouted as they walked off. Kyle turned his back on them before rolling his eyes.

Inside the room, Tweek was perched on the end of Stan's bed, sipping from a tea cup. The hairy man had two women at his bedside, one his age and one younger, and he was speaking to them to them in irritable French.

"Do you think he's Canadian?" Tweek whispered when Kyle came to the bed, leaning down into Stan's arms for a hug.

"Who, that guy?" Stan asked, looking toward the curtain. The women were talking over the man, raising their voices. "Maybe."

"Guh - that's weird!"

"Whatever," Stan said. "Terrence and Philip were Canadian." He pulled Kyle to a seat on the bed, wrapping his arms around Kyle's chest. Kyle leaned back into the warmth of him, grateful. "I'm glad we can say their names again," Stan said.

"It still makes me nervous!" Tweek said. He looked back and forth between Kyle and Stan, perhaps sensing Kyle's deep need to turn around in Stan's arms and kiss him. "I'll, uh, go."

"You don't have to," Kyle said, feeling guilty. They'd virtually ignored Tweek since the surgery. "You must be so bored at the house. Do you ever think of stopping by Craig's place? Just for a game of cards or something?"

"Oh - maybe?" Tweek peered down into his teacup. "But, um, he used to come to the whore house, you know, to do business with Cartman. Not - not whore business! He'd just meet with him about market stuff."

"So?" Stan said.

"So, gah, he knew about me! He'd laugh or something! Craig got messed up when Bebe came back. It's like he wishes she was dead!"

"He might think so sometimes, but I doubt that's true," Kyle said. "And I can't see him being mean to you just because - because you were backed into a corner. Anyway, you don't have to, it was just a thought."

Tweek left after finishing his tea, and as soon as he was on the other side of the curtain Kyle turned with a tired moan and flopped onto Stan, nuzzling his face against Stan's neck.

"What's wrong?" Stan asked, pushing his hand up under Kyle's t-shirt. "You seem worn out."

"I guess I am," Kyle said. "And Cartman is buying my house."

"What?" Stan lifted Kyle up by the shoulders and frowned at him. "What house? Your dad's house?"

"Yeah. I guess he was the only interested buyer. I effing hate the thought of him in there! I know it's stupid, it's just a house, but that's - that house is where one night, when we were kids, curled up in bed together, I started thinking about you differently. You know? And that's where my family celebrated holidays, Jewish ones, and he just wants to come in and desecrate everything, just because he hates me that much. He'll spend himself dry coming up with new ways to hurt me."

"Hey," Stan said, reaching down to tug Kyle's knees into his lap more firmly. "Don't let him hurt you, then. It's gross, psycho stuff, buying your old house, but it's your old house. My house is your home now, anyway. Right?"

"Right. I just hate how he can get to me in these ways I never even would have anticipated. Like-" Kyle broke off there, not sure now was the time. Stan raised his eyebrows.

"Like?"

"That effing dildo, Stan. It just showed up in the mailbox one day, in a package with my name on it, and I took it inside to open it, and - and my dad came into the bedroom before I could even process it, so I hid it in the room, but oh, Jesus, it wasn't even that simple." He studied Stan's face, wondering if he should continue. Stan's expression was confused but mild, and his fingers were still moving gently on Kyle's back, soothing over his skin. "It was like - this awful symbol. I knew it was from Cartman, that he was trying taunt me, but I couldn't just pitch it in the garbage. It seemed - the thing itself - this is crazy, but it seemed like some talisman. Almost like I'd be throwing away some symbolic part of you if I got rid of it. God, that sounds ridiculous out loud."

"I'm really sorry about that," Stan said. Kyle wondered if Stan could feel his heart pounding: Kyle's throat was resting on Stan's bicep. "About how I acted when I found that thing. Like you weren't allowed to like anything that wasn't – me."

"I didn't like it, though! I mean, maybe it was this kind of vague object of fascination, but it also haunted me. God, I was glad to get rid of it. I still don't know what Tweek did with it."

"Tweek?" Stan said, eyebrows raising.

"Yeah, I gave it to him. I was upset, he was there. I shoved it into his hands. Poor Tweek."

"You really didn't—" Stan said, his eyes dropping down toward the hollow of Kyle's throat. "I mean, not that it matters, but. I would have done it with you, like. So it made me sad that you felt like you had to do it without me."

"Stan, I didn't do anything. It was a symbol, but I didn't want the literal thing inside me. A piece of wood – it just seemed like it would hurt."

"Mhm, yeah, that's. That's what I thought when I saw it." Stan looked up into Kyle's eyes, and he put two fingers against the pound of Kyle's pulse on his throat, as if to say that, yes, he'd noticed how hard Kyle's heart was beating. "Mostly, though, I just wanted to tell you that you could be free if you wanted to run away. I was so – everything was some sign to me that you really just wanted to run away, that thing especially."

"But you must have known that I didn't," Kyle said. "Some part of you – didn't you see the way I looked at you?"

"Yeah," Stan said. "It broke my heart."

Kyle shook his head, and Stan kissed him. They were still kissing when Stan's nurse appeared to do his evening leg exercises, and Kyle slunk away feeling sort of proud of himself. Initially he thought it was because it felt nice to be caught kissing someone at last, but while he lurked at the window, watching the reflection of the nurse bending Stan's legs, he realized he was proud of himself for speaking about that day, the stupid dildo, the whole thing. He was tired of feeling scared: facing things felt much better.

By Saturday, Kyle felt like the smell of the hospital had seeped into his skin so deeply that even showering couldn't get rid of it. He was happy when Stan was given the green light to check out and continue this recovery at home, though annoyed that he had to be on shift while Sharon and Jimbo brought Stan home. Kyle had wanted to be there for Stan's homecoming, the first joyous one he'd had, but he had missed too many shifts around the time of the surgery and couldn't get out of this one without losing his job, which he needed more than ever, with his father making arrangements to leave town. He would have to settle for attending Stan's welcome home party later that evening, which would be a small, mostly family-attended affair, a barbeque and cake, and probably the opening of Jimbo's fancy scotch. Kyle had asked Dr. Testaburger to invite Wendy, and she had smiled in a polite way that told Kyle that Wendy probably wouldn't be attending.

He took his break as Stan was checking out, back in his wheelchair but looking more cheerful in it than he ever had before the surgery, Gregory's gift basket hugged to his chest. Sharon followed behind him, carrying some balloons and wilted flowers that various visitors had brought. Jimbo pulled the truck up on the hospital's front driveway, and Kyle leaned down to hug Stan before Jimbo lifted him in.

"I'll be home soon," Kyle promised, feeling twitchy with baseless anxiety, as if the drive home to Stan's house was an arduous journey full of dangers.

"Kay," Stan said, and he pulled Kyle back down to kiss his cheek. "Have a good day at work."

Kyle's day at work was not particularly good: it was busy, but also seemed to pass very slowly, and he was hungry, having skipped lunch in favor of hovering around during Stan's check-out process. He told himself a hundred times to stop being so internally whiny: he was lucky to have a job, lucky to have a home that he was so eager to return to after his work day, and extremely lucky to be looking forward to sleeping in his real bed, the one he shared with Stan, and having privacy under and above the blankets. Kyle had spent every night of Stan's hospital stay in that narrow bed with him, quietly touching him and being touched, practicing blow job technique and refusing to let Stan return the favor, because it would mean that Kyle would have to crouch in front of Stan's face and thrust his dick into Stan's mouth, which seemed unbelievably crass and also too vulnerable a position to adopt while in a room that a nurse might stroll into at any moment. Dr. Ahern had also given Stan permission to start sleeping on his side or stomach once he returned home, which Kyle was very glad for. He'd been looking forward to being spooned, especially now that Stan's knees could push in behind his. Stan hadn't regained much muscle strength in his legs yet, but he could at least move his thighs, and had recently reached the milestone of lifting his knees half an inch off the bed.

When his shift finally ended at seven o'clock, the sun was going down and Kyle was jittery with nerves that he couldn't explain, as if he'd have to jump through additional hoops to finally be with Stan at the house, cozy in bed, safe from whatever might hurtle itself at them next. He took off in a run as soon as he'd left the hospital parking lot, as was his custom, and he was thrilled to be running to the Marsh house instead of his father's, soon to be Cartman's. He hadn't spoken much with his father since the news about the forthcoming sale of the house, purposefully going home to change and shower when he knew Gerald wouldn't be there. He assumed Gerald would attend Stan's party that night, since Kyle had left a note inviting him, and he wasn't looking forward to confronting him, though he knew it had to happen eventually. He put that dread aside and sprinted hard toward Main Street, thinking instead about how he was running toward Stan and their new life together.

Main Street was still dead enough at night to put Kyle on edge, and he was startled when he heard footsteps in an alley as he was approaching. He told himself it was just a rat and ran faster, not turning to look. From the corner of the eye, he got the sense of a human presence in the shadows, but he sprinted ahead, knowing that he was fast enough to get away, if the person watching him was who he suspected. It was probably Cartman, waiting for Kyle, knowing that he always came this way, having tracked him long enough to memorize his schedule. Kyle didn't turn back, just ran faster, until his lungs ached and his legs began to feel leaden with exhaustion. He slowed his pace once he'd cleared Main Street and reached the two lane highway that led to the residential districts. Eventually, he got the feeling that he wasn't being watched anymore, and he still didn't turn back. To hell with Cartman and his cheap attempts at intimidation. Kyle would outrun him every time.

By the time he got home he was weak from overexertion and lack of nourishment, and he paced around on the frown lawn for a moment, catching his breath. The last of the sunset was bleeding out along the distant mountaintops, and Kyle could smell meat grilling, and could hear cheerful voices from the backyard. He walked into the house, thinking about how they would be able to remove the ramp someday soon as he trod over it.

He went to the kitchen and found Stan at the table with Jimbo and Tweek, all three of them holding glasses of scotch. Stan beamed at Kyle, and Kyle wondered if he should be affectionate with Stan in front of Jimbo, who had been distracted earlier when Stan kissed his cheek near the truck. Kyle decided he didn't care, and he walked behind Stan's chair and leaned down and hug his shoulders, pressing his sweaty face to Stan's cheek.

"Man, you look pale," Stan said, reaching back to scratch his fingers through Kyle's damp curls. "You shouldn't run so hard. What if you passed out or something?"

"I'm not that out of shape," Kyle said.

"It's good!" Jimbo said, raising his glass. "Physical endurance will make a man out of you." He drank, and Kyle was still too tender about Stan's previous condition not to be annoyed by a comment about what made a man. He ruffled Stan's hair and went to take a shower.

By the time Kyle emerged in clean clothes, his father had arrived. They exchanged awkward hellos, and Kyle went out back to get a beer from the cooler Jimbo had stocked with them. Stan was outside, too, eating a bratwurst in his chair. Kyle hadn't seen bratwurst in years, and he eagerly accepted a big bite of Stan's when he offered.

"Where's your mom?" Kyle asked. Gerald had made his way over to the grill and was attempting to chat with Ned.

"She said she had to go pick something up," Stan said. "Some surprise for me." He put his plate in his lap and dug something from his pocket. "Got a letter from Wendy," he said.

"Oh." Kyle took the envelope, which was folded in the middle, STAN written in Wendy's handwriting on the front. He gave it back to Stan. "I'd feel weird reading it," he said. "You can just tell me - what did it say, generally?"

"That she's okay, and she's really happy for me, but she's not coming tonight," Stan said. "She wants to see me again, but she still feels embarrassed by-" Stan paused and opened the letter. "By my assumption that I had to ward off her inappropriate affections by firmly declaring that I was with you," he read. "So, yeah," he said, looking up. "And she's going to some educational workshop in Denver, leaving next week. She wants to get into college, and this is supposed to help."

"That's good," Kyle said. For the first time in his life, it occurred to him that he could go to college. He'd had some vague thoughts about what being a doctor or a nurse would be like during Stan's hospital stay, and occasionally wondered about it during his shifts at the reception desk. "Do you ever think about it?" Kyle asked.

Stan laughed. "What, college? Not really. I guess I'll figure out how to walk again before I get any bigger ideas."

Kyle was actually pleased to hear a hint of Stan's cynical streak, after so much doe-eyed glee since the successful surgery. He didn't want the changes they'd both gone through between Stan's injury and recovery to be completely erased, even if they were moving on together. He leaned down to kiss Stan's forehead, then stole another bite of his bratwurst before heading over to the grill to get one for himself.

Sharon arrived with Stan's surprise after the stars had come out and the last of the meat was off the grill: it was Shelly, still wearing her American military uniform, her hair cut in a strict bob that came to her chin, her bangs ruler straight. She looked severe and grim upon entering, but she smiled when she saw Stan, leaning down to hug him.

"Damn, it's been so long," Stan said. Kyle could see that he was a little uncomfortable, shifting in his chair and rubbing his hands on his knees. He'd never liked seeming weak in front of Shelly, who had terrified him as a kid. "How - are you, um?"

"Terrible," Shelly said. "In the larger scheme of things, I mean. I'm leaving the country with the ACA as soon as I can, for Europe. But I'm happy for you, kid. We all need every strength we can possibly muster to survive the occupation."

"Let's get you something to drink," Sharon said, obviously feeling uncomfortable herself with the way her daughter had changed. Kyle felt badly for her. Sharon probably thought this would be a warm homecoming, a great surprise for Stan, but it showed how out of touch she was with both of her children after having been away from them for so long.

They all gathered around the kitchen table, mostly listening to Shelly continue to rant about the ruling government and talk about her experience in the Anti-Canadian Association. Kyle sipped from a glass of scotch and mostly tuned her out, waiting for Jimbo to chime in about the horrors of Canadian leadership, but when he spoke it was to disagree with her.

"I see where you're coming from," he said, sounding pretty drunk. "But I don't like this policy of turning tail and running to Europe. I hate that the Canadians won just as much as the next guy, but this is still our home, whether they think they own it or not. We're still Americans, goddammit, and I'm not letting them drive me away."

"Hear, hear," Stan said, raising his glass. Shelly gave him a long look that reminded Kyle of her threatening stares before she'd started pummeling Stan as a kid.

"That's very idealistic," Shelly said. "They've already rewritten our laws and shredded our Constitution."

"Not exactly," Kyle said, though his understanding of the Canadians' tolerance of American autonomy was not complete by any means. Shelly turned her dagger-like stare on him.

"What 'exactly' would be your definition of the dismantling of our sovereignty?" she asked. "You of all people should appreciate the gravity of what we've lost."

"Hey, now," Gerald said. "Kyle's taken enough grief for what Sheila and the others did. He doesn't need to hear that from you or anybody."

"Let's have some cake!" Sharon said, hopping out of her seat. The platter of grilled meats was still at the center of the table, Tweek slowly nibbling his way through the last of it.

"I'm sorry, Kyle," Shelly said, and she gave her perfectly straight hair a flick. "All I'm trying to say is that it doesn't pay to be naive. It won't protect you for long."

"Protect us from what?" Stan asked. Kyle could sense his growing agitation, his need to jump to Kyle's defense. "I think the Canadian government was right to oppose the censorship laws. And I like that they're helping U.S. citizens set up marijuana farms. It's smart."

"You fool," Shelly said, laughing darkly.

"Alright, that's enough," Jimbo said, and he laid his big hand on Stan's shoulder. "Let's not talk about politics if you're going to be rude to the guest of honor here."

Sharon reappeared with the cake, desperately serving up slices and chattering about the bakery she'd gotten it from as silence descended over the rest of them. Kyle touched Stan's thigh under the table, squeezing him there. Stan's muscle flexed responsively under his grip, and Kyle smiled at him, not wanting Shelly to spoil the evening. Stan smiled back and flexed his thigh again. The cake was good, fluffy, with a coconut flavor and dark chocolate icing. Kyle accepted a second piece when Sharon offered, though he mostly wanted to get the evening over with.

"Could I talk with you before I go?" Gerald asked as the party was breaking up, Shelly insisting to her mother that she didn't need to stay the night, and that she was expected back in Denver.

"Sure," Kyle said, less adverse to doing so after the way his father had spoken up for him. They went out back, where the yard was still fragrant with the smell of cooked meat. Kyle sat in one of the faded plastic lawn chairs that had been on the back patio at the Marsh house since he was a little boy. Gerald took the wooden bench where Ned smoked his cigarettes.

"Well," Gerald said. "I'm meeting with Cartman's lawyer to finalize the sale of the house on Monday. I'm sorry, Kyle. I really am. But like you said, the house holds a lot of unpleasant memories for all of us now, and I know you'll be happier here with Stan's family. I want you to know, also, that I'm going to give you a portion of the money. It's only ten thousand dollars, but that might be enough to get you started at college somewhere, someday."

"Dad," Kyle said. "Ten thousand - that's a lot. Um, thank you."

"Canadian, too," Gerald said, and Kyle could see he was beginning to get choked up. "And, you know. You're still welcome to come with me to New York. I've heard from my sister - I'm going to be living with her for a while, and I know she'd love to have you there. But I suspect you'll want to stay with Stan."

Kyle nodded. "I love him," he said, trying to remember if he'd said so to Gerald yet or not. "We're together."

"I know, son," Gerald said. He sighed and stretched his arms along the back of the bench, looking up at the stars. "Oh, God, I just. I hate the thought of your brother coming home and finding that rat bastard doing God knows what in our house."

"Yeah," Kyle said. This was not the time to mention that he'd given up hope of Ike returning alive. "But if he did, he'd know where to come looking for me. At Stan's house."

"That's true," Gerald said. He stared at Kyle for a while, his brow twitching. "I feel. I feel it isn't right, that your mother would be furious for me. Leaving you here - running away-"

"Dad, that's not what you're doing. I'm grown up now. I'll be twenty next year, and I'm not alone. I've got Stan, and Sharon, and Jimbo, all my friends - I'll be fine."

Saying so, he realized he actually believed it. He would be fine: things would be fine now. He stood up and hugged his father, feeling a twinge of regret at the familiar smell of him. Part of him did want Gerald to stay, to always be there in South Park, so that Kyle wasn't the last Broflovski standing, but it was foolish to pretend that Gerald still represented his sense of family. Stan was his family and his true home, his past and his future.

After Gerald and Shelly had gone, Jimbo and Ned went up to bed, Jimbo giggling drunkenly about something. Tweek was at the sink doing the dishes as usual, and Sharon was up in her room, probably upset about Shelly's remarks. Kyle slipped into the bedroom after saying goodnight to Tweek, and he grinned when he found Stan in bed, doing his nightly leg exercises, which so far mostly consisted of grasping his legs behind the knee and lifting them up and down.

"Building my thigh muscles here," Stan said, breathless just from this.

"Don't tire out on me," Kyle said, shutting the door behind him. "It's our first night, you know," he said, more quietly, coming to the end of the bed. "At home together, post-surgery."

"Oh, yeah, that had totally slipped my mind," Stan said, and he grinned. "C'mere," he said, pulling himself up to a seated position. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Kyle dropped into Stan's lap, straddling him. They'd done this before, but this was the first time Kyle could feel Stan's tired leg muscles shifting under his ass. "My dad's giving me ten thousand dollars."

"Jesus, what - from the house sale?"

"Uh-huh. God, I hate to think of having a dime of Cartman's money, but. We could use it, maybe on the farm you guys are going to start."

"We'll take care of the farm - it's basically free if you've got the land, just to get the economy going. And Jimbo's got all that land out in the middle of nowhere, up near the mountains. Kyle, that's your money. What about college?"

"That seems so surreal!" Kyle said. He put his face against Stan's, breathing in the smell of him. "You're getting hard," he said, pressing down against Stan's erection.

"Yeah," Stan said. He sighed and ran his hands up Kyle's sides, under his shirt. "You are, too."

"Mhm. I'm just so excited. For multiple meanings of the word 'excited.'"

"Jesus," Stan said. He gave Kyle a teasing kiss, nipping at his bottom lip. "You sound like your old self."

"So do you."

"Well, yeah. I guess I am my old self. God, I can't believe I never let myself realize how much I wanted you. Even back then." He pushed his hips up, smiling when Kyle blushed. He could feel the shape of Stan's cock against the crack of his ass, rubbing there. "I love the way you look," Stan said, and Kyle laughed at the awkwardness of that statement, though he was actually touched by it, deeply. "Seriously," Stan said, kissing him. "I missed your face so much, when I was away. And just, being close to you. It hit me like a ton of bricks, a couple of weeks after we started heading north. I wanted my Kyle back. The letters weren't enough."

"Stan," Kyle said, eloquence evading him again. He kissed Stan, rolling his hips down against his erection at a leisurely pace. It felt huge back there, bigger than it had in Kyle's hand or in his mouth. "Your letters were like a lifeline," Kyle said. "Like notes from the real world while I was stuck in purgatory."

"Tell me about it," Stan said, and he snorted. "Though I guess for me it was more like I was in hell."

Kyle reached behind him to fondle Stan's erection, and Stan sighed at the feeling, his head tipping back against the pillows he was propped against.

"You could be inside me," Kyle said, quietly. He didn't want to seem too eager, but he'd been thinking about it all night. Stan lifted his head, and Kyle could feel him breathing a little harder, his chest expanding between Kyle's thighs.

"Really?" Stan was speaking softly, too. "You. You don't have to, just 'cause I'm home-"

"Stan, please, that's not it. If you're ready - whenever you're ready, I want to try it. It's not even - it's not a size thing, I didn't really want that wooden thing in me. It's you, I want you. I want to know what it feels like when it's you."

When Stan carefully removed Kyle's shirt, Kyle knew that it was a sign that they would do it, now, tonight - suddenly, Kyle felt, though he'd been anticipating this since Stan came all over his face at the hospital. His heart started beating faster, and he took Stan's right hand, placing it on his chest where he could feel this. Stan smiled up at him, and Kyle heard him swallow.

"I'm nervous," Stan admitted, and Kyle nodded.

"Me too," he said. "I mean, just a little. But it's our first time, so. It doesn't have to be perfect."

Kyle realized this was easier to say than accept. They had crawled through hell to get here. Less than a week ago, Stan had been asking Kyle to kill him if he was crippled beyond recognition. This had been what was at stake: the ability to do this, even more so than Stan's use of his legs. Kyle took a deep breath and reminded himself to take things slow, though that seemed to be the pace Stan was on anyway, his hands resting on Kyle's waist while they exchanged soft, wet kisses, breathing into each other in humid huffs. Kyle pulled Stan's shirt off and moaned at the sight of his nipples, which he hadn't yet dared to lick. He bent down to do so, and Stan sighed his approval, petting Kyle's hair while he sucked one and then the other into his mouth.

Stan's hands went to the buckle on Kyle's pants, and they both looked down to watch as he unfastened it. He kissed Kyle while he pulled down the zipper, and was still kissing him as he reached in to wrap his hand around Kyle's erection. Kyle moaned, pressing forward into Stan's hand and then back against his cock. This was so different, though it was still mostly just Stan touching him. Before, Kyle had felt as if he was alone when they did this, at least in part, even when Stan's fingers were inside him. Now Kyle could assume that Stan was feeling what he felt: warmth and security wrapped in arousal, cocooning them into a world where they were alone together.

They didn't talk: Kyle couldn't imagine what could be said to mark the occasion, and their labored breathing and nervous, lingering kisses were like a language in themselves. After they were both naked, they spent some time just stroking their cocks together, Kyle's legs spread around Stan's lap, his face bumping Stan's as they humped against each other languidly, both moaning, Kyle also drooling. He'd somehow never even fantasized this: the feeling of Stan's dick against his, Stan's hand gripping both of them, his foreskin dragging against Kyle's cockhead. Kyle was taken off guard by his orgasm, and he grabbed Stan's arms for traction, shouting as it tore out of him.

"I love watching you come," Stan said when he held Kyle against him afterward, letting him recover. He'd said so several times at the hospital, too. Kyle tended to believe it, and that Stan had enjoyed it even when it was bittersweet, even if just for the moment when a climax first broke through Kyle's body. Stan liked being there afterward, too, to pet him through the unwinding, when Kyle was weak and pleasantly sleepy. Kyle could feel it: Stan loved holding him like this, after Kyle had fallen apart for him, as if it was Stan who was putting him back together again. He clung to Stan's shoulders, licking his neck, and nodded when Stan's hand moved down over the small of his back, slipping between his ass cheeks.

"Yeah," Kyle said, whispering. "But. I don't need fingers. You could just. Try it out." He glanced at the bedside table, worried when he didn't see the ointment. Stan reached under the pillow to get it, and Kyle grinned when he realized Stan had stowed it there for easy access.

"I want to do fingers," Stan said. "If you don't mind, because. I used to wish I could open you and then slide in, and now I can, so-"

"Fingers, then," Kyle said, wanting them now, too.

It felt new, knowing that Stan's fingers were preparing him for something else. Kyle got hard again and leaned back to ride a little, whining. He wanted to bounce harder, to be fuller, and he could feel Stan sensing this. Stan was licking his lips, biting them, watching Kyle's face. When his fingers slid out, Kyle spread his knees more widely.

"Okay," Stan said, picking up the ointment. "Ready?"

"Ready." It was an inadequate word. Kyle had been dreaming about this for longer than he'd even realized. He hadn't needed to know about the mechanics of anal sex to know that he wanted this feeling: he was about to give something to Stan that no one else would ever have. Ever since he was little, if he'd ever had something good to give away, it had only been Stan who came to mind.

It hurt much more than Kyle had expected, and he started to feel like an idiot as it dawned on him that he hadn't actually expected it to hurt at all. He was lowering himself onto Stan's cock very slowly, breathing in shallow puffs, having a hard time believing that he'd barely gotten a few inches in. Stan sensed his discomfort and whispered promises that they could stop, that it was okay, but Kyle refused. He was tired of being a coward, a baby, so protected. He wasn't going to shove himself down onto Stan with a single manly grunt, but he wasn't stopping, either, no way. He coaxed Stan back against the pillows, pushing his shoulders down and following him there, lying against Stan's chest. The angle was slightly better, but every minuscule descent continued to burn like hell. Kyle told himself to relax. His nails were digging into Stan's shoulders.

"Hey," Stan kept whispering, trying to get his attention. He didn't get it; Kyle needed to _concentrate_ here. Kyle peeked at Stan, annoyed by how sympathetic he looked. "Are you - maybe we should wait until I can be on top. You're so tight, dude - maybe it just hurts this way, it's okay-"

"It doesn't just hurt," Kyle said, and he let out his breath. "It feels. Interesting, and. Really effing full, so. Just let me process this, please." He moved down a little more and whimpered. There was a slice of pain, but something else, too, now that he was stuffed full of four or five inches worth. At first it had just felt like a too-thick intrusion, but now the feeling was something more: it was the deepness, the sense that Stan was truly in there, touching previously untouched places. That part, Kyle liked. He sighed and moved down a little more.

What was going on inside didn't hurt too much, he decided. It was the outside part, the strain on his - freaking hole, which was finally stretched open around the base of Stan's cock. Having it all the way in allowed Kyle to relax a little, and he went as limp as possible against Stan's chest, concentrating on his breathing, squeezing around Stan's dick in experimental twitches. Stan's breath was coming hard, lifting Kyle up and down as his chest moved with it. Kyle pressed his hips back, just slightly, and groaned at the feeling of trying to move at all with something that big stuck up inside him. He liked it - it was neat, he decided, a neat feeling. Still painful, but not enough that he wanted it out.

"Are you okay?" Stan kept asking, tickling his fingers over the back of Kyle's neck. "Kyle?"

"I'm fine," Kyle said. "What I just accomplished took more energy than you'd think, okay, so." He was soaked in sweat, shaking. "I just need a rest before we get started."

"Okay, but, uh. 'Started' might not be what we're getting to, because I'm about to come."

"Oh." Kyle sat up a little to look at Stan, and it was enough movement to set him off. Stan groaned powerfully and surged up into Kyle when he came - not hard, but enough to make Kyle yelp with surprise. Stan crushed his mouth against Kyle's, as if he'd decided ahead of time that they should kiss at this moment, the moment when Stan came inside him. Stan seemed too blown apart to really kiss, mostly just panting against Kyle's parted lips.

"Sorry," Stan said.

"Don't be sorry," Kyle said, and he kissed Stan until Stan had regained the ability to return his kisses intelligently. Kyle hadn't been looking forward to pulling off of him, but it actually felt pretty good. Even the lingering burn as the tip slid out was weirdly nice, the way that finishing a run was nice, when his muscles were throbbing and tired. Kyle curled against Stan's chest, hiding his face under Stan's chin. He needed a moment. Stan seemed to sense this, holding him there, one arm tight around Kyle's waist and his other hand in Kyle's hair, pressing his curls down.

"Damn," Stan said. "I wish I could curse for real. That felt so good, it deserves like ten thousand curses. The kind you say when you're amazed."

"Fuck," Kyle said, for both of them, and his v-chip got him good, but it didn't hurt for long. The aftershock was sort of nice, and he groaned when he felt Stan's come leaking from him. "Feel this," Kyle said, taking Stan's hand and bringing it down.

"Oh, wow, dude," Stan said, his fingers sliding around Kyle's wet, loosened hole, and Kyle had to hold in a laugh at how childlike Stan's exclamation had sounded. "That's - Jesus." Stan's fingers dipped inside shallowly, and Kyle groaned. "Sorry," Stan said, withdrawing them.

"No, keep going," Kyle said, getting hard. "That felt. That was a fascinating feeling." He laughed at himself, and pushed his ass back greedily when Stan continued feeling his way over his new openness.

"It's tight again," Stan said. "I mean, different, but still tight, like I wasn't even in there."

"I can still feel you," Kyle said, shifting. "That was crazy, how deep you were. Felt freaking crazy."

"You can do it to me," Stan said, and Kyle groaned. That sounded exhausting at the moment.

"I will," he said, not sure about this. "But, just. Keep doing that. Yeah."

"I'm getting hard again," Stan said, rubbing his fingers around in a way that made Kyle hiss and arch back for more at the same time.

"You can go in again," Kyle said, deciding this as he said so. "I want to - I want more of that, like. I didn't feel finished."

"Sorry," Stan said, and he reached for Kyle's cock. "But you weren't even hard."

"It's not the same as that kind of finishing. Ah - yeah. Once you're, um. Hard enough, go back in, please."

Stan did, and Kyle threw his head back, groaning. The feeling was better now that he had some context for what it would be like, and though it still hurt going in, he felt braver and more relaxed, knowing that he would like it when Stan was in all the way. Once he was, Kyle paused to take some panting breaths, and he sighed into Stan's mouth when suddenly he was there, kissing Kyle, his hands cupping Kyle's cheeks.

"You look so good like this," Stan said, his voice choppy, bangs trembling over his forehead. Kyle grinned and bounced a little, shallowly. They both gasped, and Stan's eyes fell shut. He lasted longer this time, but not very long, and Kyle got only a little bit hard while he rode Stan, too overwhelmed by the newness of this feeling to get anywhere close to coming. He still felt finished afterward, in a sense, pulling off of Stan and moaning at the feeling of more come sliding out of him – it was gross, when he considered it from a technical standpoint, but he was also sort of fond of the sensation already.

"I'm gonna clean up," Kyle said after they'd kissed for a while, lying together on top of the blankets. It was nice to finally be able to make out with Stan while he lay on his side instead of his back, but Kyle didn't know how to handle how needy Stan seemed in the aftermath: the soft noises he was making, the way he couldn't seem to stop kissing Kyle's mouth, and the heavy sighs he kept pushing out. Even at the hospital, where he'd often fallen straight to sleep after his orgasms, Stan had never been like this after sex.

"Don't go yet," Stan said when Kyle tried to move away.

"I have to." Kyle captured Stan's bottom lip between his teeth, tugging on it gently. "My ass will get all crusty."

"Oh. Okay. Mhm, but hurry back."

Kyle didn't hurry – it felt good to take his time, to be the one closed mysteriously into the bathroom for once, and he liked the idea of Stan waiting for him. It was nice to feel like the fragile, injured party for a change, though he felt more courageous than fragile, and he wasn't injured: there was no blood when he cleaned himself up, and already he felt sore but not hurt, just subtly reinvented. He felt sexy, he decided, examining himself in the mirror. It was an entirely new feeling, and a good one.

When he emerged, Stan blinked awake and reached for him. Kyle bound happily into the bed, and into Stan's arms. He liked the new smell under the sheets: Stan's come and his, and something less distinct that Kyle could only think of as 'sex.'

"I can't wait until I can just walk into the damn bathroom," Stan said.

"Be careful with your 'damns,'" Kyle said, though he'd never seen one set off a shock for Stan. He was still worried that this impossible joy would slip through their fingers, and if it was undone by a curse word, the irony alone would kill him. "Do you need to use the bathroom?" Kyle asked. Stan was fading already, holding him tight but too sleepy to even kiss, just rubbing his face against Kyle's.

"Nah," Stan said. "I went before you came in. And I didn't even drink that much. The scotch Jimbo got was good, though, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Kyle said, as if he knew scotch. "It went well with the cake."

Stan laughed, and Kyle poked him under his arm, grinning. They squirmed together a bit, half-wrestling the way they used to as kids, and Stan fell asleep almost as soon as he settled into a comfortable position, his forehead resting on Kyle's, arm draped over Kyle's side. Kyle watched his smile drain away as he drifted off, and he kissed Stan's face in tiny pecks, wishing he could get to sleep so easily.

For Kyle, sleep was harder to come by. He rolled over, snuggling back into the curve of Stan's body, and told himself not to think too much, but he couldn't help it. This was so good, and he didn't know good well enough to trust it. To calm himself down, he made a list of his potential worries: Ike still gone, his father leaving soon, Cartman buying the house, Stan's long road of physical therapy still ahead, Shelly's fanatical but not totally unwarranted concerns about the new government, Wendy's unhappiness, Craig's menacing role in the good that had been done for Stan. He came to the end of his list and went over it again, pulling Stan's arm more snugly around himself. He was forgetting something, he was sure of it: some essential worry that would devour them if he didn't account for it. Kyle wracked his mind, but couldn't come up with it. He was sure it was there somewhere, waiting to surprise him with the one awful circumstance he'd neglected to consider.

He told himself he was being ridiculous and dropped into sleep, feeling both new and restored, like his old self and also like a completely different person. It was the kind of combination that only Stan could ever have brought out in him: a connection to their past and the tenuous, terrifying hope for a future.


	10. Chapter 10

Kyle had been afraid that the slow progress of physical therapy would frustrate and anger Stan, but Stan was suddenly saint-like in his acceptance of his limitations, which Kyle supposed he should have expected. They were not the limitations he had railed and fought against. These were temporary, and Stan got to see himself improving every day, little by little. He was working hard with a noble purpose: Kyle should have known that this would make Stan happier than he had been in years, even if he could barely stand for a few seconds, with the help of two nurses, before sinking down to his wobbling knees.

They went to the hospital together almost every morning, Kyle for his shift and Stan for his physical therapy. By Kyle's lunch break, Stan would be done for the day, worn out, and they would have lunch together in the cafeteria, usually something brought from home. After Kyle's break, Stan would begin his volunteer shift. He was still in his wheelchair, and something about this made him particularly lovable to the patients he visited, but maybe they would have loved him anyway. He read to old people and played cards with other vets in long-term recovery, did puppet shows for bored little kids and flirted gamely with their exhausted mothers. Stan was like the hospital mascot all of a sudden, and Kyle knew why: he was feeling guilty for his own good fortune, hurrying to try to catch up with what he felt he owed the world now.

Kyle felt the same way, most days. After his shift ended, he would meet Stan in the front lobby and they would head home together, usually stopping at the market for some kind of treat that they couldn't really afford. The route home didn't feel as long as it once had, even with Kyle walking slow alongside Stan's chair instead of running, which he'd taken to doing in the mornings before his shifts, after drowsy sex with Stan. The weather had gotten nice, cool and breezy, the air smelling of changing leaves. The sun was going down earlier, and it was always very dark by the time they got home, welcomed back by the smell of dinner. Ned was teaching Tweek how to cook. Sharon had gotten a nursing position in North Park and was often late getting home, so they usually ate without her. Kyle's father had left for New York at the end of September. The former Broflovski residence officially belonged to Cartman, and Kyle walked over to discreetly spy on it at least once a week, but so far hadn't seen any changes, aside from Cartman's massive Jeep parked in the driveway. He seemed to be living there alone. The broken front window still had cardboard taped over it.

"Have you thought about what you want to do for your birthday?" Kyle asked Stan when they were in bed one night after dinner, still just cuddling lazily, though Kyle could see that Stan was beginning to get hard from anticipation. "It's only two weeks away," Kyle said, and he laid an encouraging hand over Stan's erection.

"It'd be nice to be able to take a step without Julie and Pierre holding me up," Stan said. Julie and Pierre were his physical therapists. As far as Kyle could tell, they had some kind of good cop-bad cop routine going on. Stan loved Julie and deeply resented Pierre. "I guess that's all I really want," Stan said, reaching down to give Kyle's ass a squeeze. "And maybe a cake."

"Of course we'll have a cake!" Kyle said, sitting up. "I thought maybe we could do a proper party."

"Proper," Stan mimicked, grinning, and Kyle tackled him. "But, listen," Stan said once he had Kyle pinned. He'd gotten much more mobile in bed, able to do a little labored crawling on his knees that at least allowed him to get in and out of his chair with more dignity. "I think I'm ready for another milestone, in the meantime."

"Yeah?" Kyle said, and Stan nodded. He was playing with Kyle's hair, which Sharon had recently cut. Stan had taken it personally, complaining that she'd trimmed Kyle's curls too severely.

"I think I could try being on top," Stan said. "Of you. During sex."

Kyle laughed at that phrasing, then felt badly. He leaned up to kiss Stan on the mouth, sighing at the thought of being able to lie back and let Stan do the work. Bouncing in Stan's lap was good, it was _great_ , but Kyle had been curious about what other positions would feel like.

"Okay," he said. "Let's try. Just don't push yourself too hard. You've got rehab in the morning."

"We'll see," Stan said, and he nuzzled at Kyle's cheek. Kyle could see that he was nervous, delaying, ducking Kyle's eyes. "I feel like pushing it pretty hard," Stan said when he finally met Kyle's gaze. "If that's okay with you."

"It's okay," Kyle said. "I'd like that." He didn't even blush: he'd gotten so good at talking about sex, all of the scariness now stripped away. If he wanted to ride Stan's cock, he asked for it, unless Stan asked first. He'd even asked Stan to give him a rim job a few nights ago, and had been giddy when Stan eagerly complied. Kyle had never felt so close to anyone before: not even to Stan, not like this. They were rarely apart except during Kyle's shifts, and even then Stan stopped by the reception desk between patient visits to kiss Kyle's cheek and ask him how it was going, as if it was ever going very differently from how it had been half an hour before. Half of the nurses who worked the desk thought Stan was the sweetest thing, and the other half thought he was a nuisance.

Stan was shy about assuming the position, distracting Kyle with kissing that felt both overly emboldened and distracted. Kyle had peeked into some of Stan's physical therapy sessions, and watching him take small steps toward mobility was both heart-wrenching and uplifting. So was this, Kyle realized, swallowing up the heavy breaths that Stan was already pushing into his mouth. It was different from regular sex-breathing: he was working hard to stay up in his knees long enough to push his dick into Kyle, who angled himself as helpfully as possible. Kyle groaned with special gratitude as Stan slid into him. It felt different and yet the same, and Kyle was glad for that, and for all the new things still to come. He'd been fantasizing, sometimes even while bouncing in Stan's lap, about being on all fours and having Stan hugged around him from behind, primal and protective at the same time.

"That's okay?" Stan said, panting. Kyle nodded and drew Stan's face down to his, kissing his cheeks, which were damp with sweat.

"Don't overdo it," Kyle said. "Just - lay in me for a while. I'd like that."

Stan lowered himself onto Kyle, his knees sliding outward. He hid his face against Kyle's neck, and Kyle cradled him there, petting his trembling shoulders. He didn't want to whisper encouragement, afraid it would seem condescending. He only squeezed around Stan's dick in slow but greedy pulls, smiling when Stan groaned.

"One day," Stan said, lifting his head. "I'm gonna fuck you as hard as you want. Someday."

"I know," Kyle said. "Don't rush it. We've got time. And anyway - my ass is still an amateur. I'm serious!" Kyle said when Stan laughed. "I like going slow. It's less intimidating."

"I'd never want to intimidate you," Stan said. He was up on his elbows now, his breath coming more evenly while he played with Kyle's hair. "And, God, just this. Feels so good."

"It really does," Kyle said, arching. Stan groaned and kissed his mouth, pumped his hips, and came rather quickly. He scooted down to take Kyle into his mouth as if in apology for this. They'd been at it for less than a month, and Stan had made some progress at lasting longer, but not much. Kyle usually didn't mind. He found Stan's nascent attempts at self control flattering, a reflection on his own ability to be arousing, and Stan could usually get it up again in under a minute if Kyle wanted him to.

When they were finished, Stan was exhausted, and Kyle helped haul him up toward the pillows, Stan's feet scrambling tiredly against the mussed blankets. He brought Stan to his chest and held him there, still throbbing in a kind of vague, whole-body way from his release.

"What kind of cake?" Kyle asked when he felt Stan start to drift off.

"Hmm?"

"I want to make you a cake," Kyle said, thinking of the one Wendy had brought to the house shortly after Stan had moved home, and Kyle's absurd jealousy of it. Kyle had eaten most of it himself in an angst-filled gorge. "Really, Stan, seriously. It sounds dumb, but it's important to me. I want to make your birthday cake this year."

"Fine, dude," Stan said. "How about - pumpkin spice. With cream cheese icing. Could we get the stuff for that?"

"I think so." Kyle kissed the top of Stan's head, nodding to himself. "Yeah, absolutely."

The following day was a Sunday, Kyle's only day off from the hospital. Stan still had physical therapy, but on Sundays his therapists came to the house after lunch to do their exercises in the backyard, since the weather was nice. Stan and Kyle slept late, dry humping each other into wakefulness around ten. Kyle skipped his run in lieu of taking a bath with Stan, who could get out of the tub himself now, but only with supervision, keeping a tight hold on Kyle's arm as he slowly rose from the water. Despite this struggle, Stan was half hard when he dropped into his chair, and Kyle knelt on the floor to slurp Stan's cock into his mouth, which was not uncommon after they'd bathed together. Kyle even loved the slight remainder of soap on Stan's skin, the clean scent that seemed to fade as Stan got harder in his mouth and the natural musk of him filled Kyle's nose. Kyle was still damp, shivering more from pleasure than the slight chill in the bathroom, and he came in his own hand while he sucked Stan off, feeling triumphant, as if they had transcended their previous awkward bathing experiences. He licked his lips after Stan had finished, climbed into his lap and kissed him for a while.

"You're cold," Stan said, pulling a towel around Kyle's shoulders when he felt him trembling.

"Not really," Kyle said. The cooler morning temperatures had been lingering until almost noon, but Kyle felt warm enough, pressed against Stan's skin. He let Stan dry his back and shoulders with the towel, thinking of where he might find 'pumpkin spice' for a cake.

When Stan's therapists arrived, Kyle headed for the market. It felt good to walk under the high sun without being scorched by it, the harshness of summer already a feverish memory. There was little about his life lately that didn't feel good, and it made him nervous at moments, but he was beginning to relax into the security of having come through the storm, at least in the light of day. Sometimes at night he still woke from bad dreams and felt panicked, nudging Stan's legs with his knee under the blankets, wanting him to nudge back. Stan was a deep sleeper, and Kyle supposed this was good: he didn't need to be exposed to Kyle's persisting paranoia that all of this could be taken away from them in an instant, as quickly at the war had once changed everything.

The black market was still going strong, though Bebe was running on a platform for restoring Main Street to its former respectful glory, and this notion seemed to have widespread support. She was proposing free business licenses to the merchants at the market, and cheap rent in the buildings that were now being renovated and repainted by Canadian-funded efforts that offered jobs to local townspeople who needed the work and the money. The restoration of normalcy in town was also something Kyle was a bit wary to accept. It made him feel foolish, too, to see that the Canadians so far just seemed to want to help them recover, even if it was under their strict supervision. As a Broflovski, he still had guilt, and he wanted to do something good to make up for it, like Stan's efforts to entertain all of the patients who were still stuck at Hell's Pass. Kyle certainly didn't want anything to do with government, but he'd been thinking more about college since getting his portion of the house money from his father, and medical school, though it seemed so far-fetched.

As he'd suspected, none of the smaller booths that dealt in spices had anything pumpkiny on offer, and he eyed the Supermarket, nervous about approaching. He saw Craig at the front, still manning the 'customer service' desk. He looked less furious than he had the last few times Kyle had encountered him, paging through a newspaper and chewing on a toothpick. His hair had grown back somewhat, making him look less like a convict. Kyle approached nervously, not sure how to handle this. They had mailed him Stan's letter of thanks before leaving Hell's Pass.

"Hi," Kyle said when Craig looked up from his newspaper. Craig gave Kyle his single-eyed stare, and Kyle began to wonder if he was tempting fate. Surely the news that Stan and Kyle were 'together' had gotten to Craig by then, since the black market was the main gathering place for South Park gossip. Kyle had no doubt that Cartman had found out somehow, and he couldn't even begin to fathom how or when he might lash out at them for having the nerve to have evaded his control. Even with the Canadian overseers in town, Cartman was still a formidable power in South Park, especially considering his implications that he'd had Canadian supply sources all along.

"Did you get the letter?" Kyle asked when Craig just went on staring at him, turning the toothpick over in his mouth.

"No," Craig said, and Kyle understood that he was lying, but he said nothing. He wasn't going to force Craig to discuss it. "What do you want?" Craig asked. He put the newspaper down noisily.

"Pumpkin spice," Kyle said. "Or any kind of pumpkin seasoning you might have. I got cinnamon and vanilla from the bake shop-"

"That shop charges twice as much as we do for spices," Craig said. He stood from his stool and stretched, pinching his eye shut irritably as he did. He looked less dirty, maybe because he'd shaved. "I've got pumpkins," Craig said. "Canned. What do you need them for?"

"A cake."

"Oh," Craig said. "For Stan. It's October, isn't it?"

"You could come to his party," Kyle said. "Craig, God, everything he has is because of you, I don't how to thank-"

"So don't," Craig said. "Good for him. I suppose I could have spent that money on a robot eye in a few years, but I'm really not all that enthused about sticking another piece of experimental technology into my skull, so, whatever." There was an awkward pause, and Kyle wondered if he should just walk away. Craig pointed toward the grocery section of the Supermarket. "Go to the canned goods," he said. "Find your pumpkins, pay at the register, and get out."

"Well, I'm still grateful," Kyle said, unable to let it go, though he knew that he should. "That day. If you hadn't been there, I don't know-"

"Yeah, okay," Craig said, sharply. "I suppose I've seen enough of my childhood acquaintances roll over for Cartman's dick for one lifetime."

"Oh. Um, you should come over sometime, Tweek would really-"

"Go!" Craig said, pointing, and he grabbed his newspaper, crumpling his fist around it. "Get your damn pumpkins and leave me off your social calendar. If you're stalling because you're afraid to run into Cartman, don't worry about it. He hasn't been here in weeks."

"Really?" Kyle knew hovering was ill-advised, but in some strange way he had actually missed Craig. "You know, he bought my house."

"Yes, that was a charming move. Broflovski, how many more ways do I have to say it?" Craig looked torn up for a moment, and Kyle was taken aback. "I hate the sight of your face. To the point that I'm restraining myself from slapping it. Please leave me alone."

"Jesus, fine," Kyle muttered, surprised by how much this hurt. He wandered away, found the canned pumpkin, and avoided looking in Craig's direction as he left. He felt guilty, as if he had come to the market to provoke Craig, or to brag, to show him that he'd been wrong. Kyle wondered if Craig knew that Wendy was in Denver, taking her pre-college courses and staying in an apartment with five other college bound girls, like something akin to an actual adult. Stan had gotten her address and had written to her, and Kyle wanted to do the same, but he had no idea what he would say.

He consulted with Ned about the cake, and refused to let him and Tweek take over completely. Kyle needed to do this himself, for reasons that were hard to explain. Stan was busy with his own mission in the weeks leading up to his birthday: he wanted to graduate from the wheelchair to a walker that he could at least use to get from room to room in the house. He was determined, and Kyle was worried that he would fall short of his goal, and that this would ruin his birthday.

"I'm going to invite Bebe and Clyde," Kyle said when they were on their way home from Hell's Pass, a week before the party. The weather had cooled significantly, and Kyle was wishing that he'd brought a jacket to work. "Unless - do you still hate Clyde?"

"No," Stan said. "I mean, I never hated him. Well, maybe I did, but you can guess why."

"Sure."

"Invite them if you want. God, I keep thinking - it's stupid, but I keep wishing Butters could be there. Kenny, too."

"Kenny is very possibly still alive somewhere," Kyle said, resentfully. "With my car. I guess he decided it was his to keep after he couldn't find Karen and Ike."

"Maybe he's still searching," Stan said, and he gave Kyle a sheepish glance, looking up at him from his chair. "You never know."

"That's the worst part," Kyle said. "I feel like I'll never know what happened to him. To Ike, I mean. To hell with Kenny."

"Don't say that, dude. We bonded, you know, up north. All four of us. I kind of thought - if they both made it back, I thought Kenny and Bebe might end up together. I looked out for Butters, and Kenny was really protective of Bebe. Which annoyed her, I think, but his heart was in the right place."

"I just don't understand how he got home," Kyle said, though he really hadn't given it much thought since Kenny left with the car. "He wouldn't explain it to me."

"A lot of what went on is hard to explain," Stan said, and Kyle felt a little wounded. They still hadn't talked much about Stan's experiences in battle. For the most part, Kyle didn't really want to know, but he wanted Stan to feel like he could confide in him, that Kyle wasn't just some sheltered child who wouldn't understand.

Kyle sent out invitations to the party the following day, glad that regular mail service had resumed and he didn't have to deliver them by hand. He only invited a few friends, not wanting Stan to feel too overwhelmed. Without thinking much about it, he wrote one out for Butters, but didn't have the nerve to do anything sentimental like leaving it at his grave or casting it into the strong wind that had begun to scatter fallen leaves in the evenings. He also didn't have the nerve to throw it away, and felt stupid when he considered hiding it in a book. In bed that night, he showed it to Stan, and flushed when Stan read it out loud.

"Dear Butters," Stan said. "We would be delighted to have you at Stan's twentieth birthday party this Friday, October 19th. You were always so thoughtful about gifts." Stan paused there to swallow, and Kyle felt badly for making him upset. "We miss you - a lot, and know you'll be there in spirit. Love, Kyle and Stan."

"Sorry," Kyle said immediately when Stan looked up at him. "I don't know why I did that."

"It's nice," Stan said, and he folded the invitation once before tucking it down between the headboard and the mattress. "That's. Thanks for that."

"Well," Kyle said, feeling stupid anyway. He launched himself onto Stan's chest and buried his face there, sighed. "I miss him, too," he said, wondering if this would be news to Stan. They might not have bonded at war or been very close as teenagers, but something about South Park was forever altered without Butters. Stan pet Kyle's hair and was quiet for a while.

"I think I'd like to work at the shelter again," he said. "Wendy's got Gregory working there now, and I guess Christophe and his mom help out, but. I miss those guys. The animals, I mean."

"Of course you do," Kyle said. "When you're done with your therapy - you know, you could go volunteer there, instead of the hospital. You don't have to wait around for me."

"But I like to," Stan said, and he brought his hand down to back of Kyle's neck, his palm warm and dry, enough additional comfort to make Kyle's eyes slide shut. "I like walking - well, not walking, but. I like being there on your walk home. Now that it's getting dark early. It's not like I could do anything for you if something happened, but I like knowing you're safe."

"Nothing's going to happen to me," Kyle said, clutching at Stan's shirt, wanting the closeness of him to make this true.

"It's just this time of year," Stan said. "The way it starts to smell like dying leaves, or, I don't know. I guess I still associate this month with Halloween, and scary stuff, and - it's something I picked up during the war, probably, this sense that I've got to be on guard, that something might always be coming for me. For us."

Kyle was alarmed but not surprised to learn that Stan shared his lurking sense of dread. He sat up and nibbled at Stan's neck, not wanting to dwell on it.

"I do like it when you come home with me at night," Kyle said. "I won't lie." He mostly loved the chance to talk about how Stan's day had gone and whatever else was on his mind, and it was nice just wandering through town together again. It had been a long time since the streets of South Park had felt like something that they were truly a part of, a place that belonged to them.

After a few icy days that smelled of the oncoming winter, the day of Stan's party was slightly warmer, and Kyle was glad. Ned had built a fire pit in the backyard, and Jimbo had scavenged some nice looking polished wood to make the benches that circled around it. Kyle was hoping to end the party there, with coffee and cake, though the cake hadn't turned out exactly as he'd hoped. It had fallen a little, but not catastrophically, and the icing at least tasted good. He'd taken the day off from the hospital to work on it and the other party preparations, and he felt the afternoon pass by more quickly than it usually did, his hours burned away by cleaning and helping Tweek with the cooking. It was the kind of thing he'd get sick of after too long, but for the time being with was nice to be occupied with household things, getting ready for company.

Stan was home by two o'clock, retrieved from the hospital by Jimbo, who had also brought a truck bed full of logs that needed splitting. Kyle helped him unload the truck while Stan took a nap, tired after an especially long therapy session.

"He can almost get himself into the truck now," Jimbo said as they hefted logs into the backyard. "Almost."

"He wants to walk around tonight," Kyle said. "I'm afraid he pushes himself too hard sometimes - I wish they hadn't let him bring the walker home yet."

"Nah, it's alright," Jimbo said. "They called it his birthday present."

"Ha. Well, Sharon's insurance pays for it, I imagine, so. That's odd."

"Don't be grumpy," Jimbo said, poking Kyle's ribs after they'd dumped the logs, both of them out of breath, only half the bed emptied. "If he gets tired, he can sit."

"I guess," Kyle said. He wasn't sure why he was making such a big deal out of this party. Maybe it was because he couldn't remember the last truly happy birthday that either of them had enjoyed. Kyle tried to recall his eighth birthday, but only had some vague memories of water guns in the backyard and his mother asking him to make a wish on his candles. He remembered his bar mitzvah well enough, but didn't like to think about it. Even more sparsely attended than Butters' childhood birthday parties, it had been too soon after the death of Randy Marsh for anyone in attendance to muster a celebratory mood, especially Stan. Kyle mostly remembered lots of his mother's political cronies clapping politely and being pressured to dance with Wendy, who had been the only girl his age in attendance. The single bright spot had been afterward at his house, lying in bed with Stan and sniffling pathetically while Stan wiped his cheeks with his thumbs.

"I don't even know why I'm crying," Kyle had said, though he did: his mother had come home for the party but would leave again in the morning, and Ike had spent the day in the attic, as always. Everything felt ruined, not like the beginning of anything.

"You don't have to know why," Stan had said, and he'd scooped Kyle fully into his arms for the first time since Randy had died, letting him muffle his sniffling against Stan's dress shirt. Kyle had felt a twinge of unexpected happiness, and it grew until he started to wonder if it would be nice to have this all the time: Stan in his bed, telling Kyle it was okay to feel lousy and holding him tight like he meant it. Immediately it had seemed like a dumb question, or at least something Kyle already knew the answer to. Of course it would be nice. It would be wonderful, he decided, the best and worst thing he could foolishly hope for.

Remembering what it had felt like to chastise himself for wanting Stan at thirteen, Kyle hurried into the house as soon as they were finished stacking logs. He needed a shower before the party, but he dropped into bed with Stan instead, curling up next to him. Stan moaned when he felt Kyle's presence, and he slid his arm across Kyle's back, his eyes still closed.

"Maybe this was a dumb idea," Kyle said. "I hate parties."

"I like them," Stan said. "And that cake smells good. Don't worry about it, dude. It'll be fun."

"Happy birthday, by the way," Kyle said, because he'd forgotten to say so before Stan left the house for therapy. Stan opened his eyes a little and grinned.

"Now I'm in my twenties," Stan said. "Weird. I feel like I'm sixty or something."

"Me too," Kyle said. He pressed his face to Stan's and closed his eyes. "But, you know. Sex with you makes me feel young."

"You are young, dude. You're nineteen."

"Well - exactly."

"I'm the one with a walker. At best."

"Not for much longer," Kyle said, hopefully.

They dozed off for a while, and though Kyle felt irresponsible leaving Sharon and the others to finish getting ready, he couldn't manage to pull himself from the warmth of a mid-afternoon, mid-autumn nap with Stan. The daylight was fading by the time he dragged himself into the shower.

Gregory and Christophe were the first to arrive, thirty minutes early. They had a gift for Stan, wrapped very neatly in newspaper, a delicate, rose-like bow made of strips of newspaper on top.

"Gregory doesn't have enough to do," Christophe said when Kyle took the package from them. "He's making crafts out of newspaper now."

"I have plenty to do," Gregory said. "Bebe's campaign keeps me busy all day, and then there's the shelter, those animals produce staggering amounts of waste - but, look, it's Stan's birthday. It's a special occasion, worthy of crafts."

"This is really nice," Kyle said, bringing it into the living room. "Thanks, guys."

"It's a pair of shoes," Christophe said. "Which is tacky, I'm afraid. It was Gregory's idea."

"You completely approved when I suggested it!"

"I told you I had second thoughts, no?"

"That's fine," Kyle said. "Stan will love it. Come in and get a drink."

Bebe and Clyde had arrived before Stan emerged from the bedroom, still looking sleepy but in good spirits, moving slow with his walker. Everyone chattered good wishes at him in a nervous rush, trying not to stare too much as he made his way to the chair that Kyle pulled out for him at the kitchen table.

"Well, I'm spent," Stan said once he was seated, his cheeks red from embarrassment and exertion. "Thanks for coming, everybody. Goodnight!" He reached for the walker, and it took everyone a beat or two to get the joke and laugh. Kyle hurried to press a beer into Stan's hand, though he didn't seem overly perturbed, and he took Kyle's beer-free hand and kissed it. "Thanks," he said quietly, and then it was Kyle's turn to go red across the cheeks, happily.

They all settled around the table as Sharon and Ned sliced up the centerpiece of the meal, a fat pork tenderloin that had cost plenty at the market. The kitchen table was pleasantly cramped even before Sharon and Ned took their seats. Kyle was pressed between Stan and Christophe, feeling a little drunk by his second beer and remembering that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He loaded his plate up without guilt, going light on the pork and heavy on the garlicky mashed potatoes.

"Have any of you heard from Wendy?" Stan asked when the conversation about Bebe's campaign began to lag. "I wrote to her, but I haven't heard back yet. I guess the mail's still slow coming from Denver," he added, as if to make it clear that he wasn't upset with her about this.

"She's doing fine," Bebe said. "She really likes her program, but of course she gets into little tiffs with her roommates. She's very particular about how things are, you know, typical only child. I'm sure she'll write back once she gets more settled. I'm mostly worried she'll get sick. I keep reading stuff about that flu that's going around."

"That's spread to Denver?" Sharon said. "I thought it was further north."

"What flu?" Stan asked.

"It's a semi-serious outbreak," Gregory said. "Affecting a lot of people in what's left of the major cities in the west - I think for healthy adults it's just a setback, but there have been deaths, mostly the elderly and some young children."

"And of course there's all kinds of conspiracy theories about the Canadians poisoning our water and so forth," Bebe said. "Which is ridiculous."

Kyle looked to Jimbo, who had once been fond of radio programs that advertised conspiracy theories such as that. He was shaking his head.

"Nah," he said. "If they wanted to kill us off, they wouldn't go after old people and kids. That's a shame, though. Hope it doesn't make its way down here."

"I'm sure it will eventually," Sharon said. "They're working on an inoculation - the hospital in North Park hopes to have it by Thanksgiving."

The meal was good, Tweek dashing around refilling drinks and fetching beers like a waiter. Kyle felt a bit badly for letting him take on that role, but he knew Tweek liked to feel as if he was earning his keep. He seemed happy enough, sipping from the cafe Americano that he seemed to drink with every meal, gesturing with his hands to tell Bebe some story. Kyle was getting tired, despite his nap, probably because of the beer. He got up to make a fresh pot of coffee to serve with the cake, and asked Ned to start a fire outside so they could have dessert there.

Stan managed to get to the fire pit with his walker, but Kyle could see that he was exhausted as he slumped down onto one of Jimbo's benches. Kyle sat beside him while the others trailed out with their cake and coffee, having given Stan a kind of unofficial head start. Stan blew out his breath and stretched his hands toward the fire, leaning into Kyle's embrace when he offered it. Stan was shaking from the effort of walking so far, and he felt overly warm, despite the chill in the air.

"You okay?" Kyle asked, softly enough so that Bebe and Tweek wouldn't hear as they took seats on a bench opposite theirs. Stan nodded and pushed his elbow more firmly into Kyle's lap.

"I love you," he said, turning to murmur this into Kyle's ear. "You're amazing."

"You're drunk," Kyle said, beaming. Stan shrugged.

"Yeah, but it's my birthday. I can be drunk, it's okay. And I do love you, Kyle, I really do."

"I know," Kyle said. He pecked Stan's cheek and looked over to catch Bebe watching them while Tweek rambled on about whatever. She smiled at him, and Kyle looked back to Stan. "Love you, too, dude. Happy birthday."

Stan opened his presents outside and declared that he loved the shoes, the quilt that Bebe and Clyde had apparently made for him together, the gleaming hunting knife from Jimbo, mittens from Ned, and a new winter coat from his mother. Kyle was pleased by the practical nature of the gifts, possibly because he was pretty tipsy himself and everything seemed great, just perfect. He even decided that his cake was delicious after Stan praised it at length and ate two big pieces.

After the presents were open and the cake was finished, Gregory said he felt like they should be singing campfire songs. He was joking, but Jimbo took the opportunity to start in on some old patriotic songs. Kyle was surprised when everyone joined in. Even Christophe sang along in a muttering, half-drunk way, and by the time they'd gotten to 'America the Beautiful' Jimbo and Clyde were both in tears. Stan was basically asleep with his head on Kyle's shoulder, humming along at random moments, his arm snug around Kyle's waist under the blanket that Sharon had draped over them. He consented to the wheelchair when she brought it out, insisting that he'd done enough walking for one night.

"Pretty good party," Kyle said when he was climbing into bed with Stan that night, after the guests had gone and only Tweek remained in the kitchen, doing the dishes.

"Mhmm," Stan said in agreement, rolling toward Kyle. They huddled together under the blankets, both naked. "I think I'm too out of it to do anything," Stan said, his eyes falling shut as Kyle smoothed his hair down.

"I know," Kyle said. "You can have your birthday sex in the morning. Any requests?"

"Hm. Maybe I could milk you. Like, you know. Before. I did look forward to it, before, Kyle, I did. Even when I couldn't come. I still - you were my reward for still being alive at the end of the day."

"I'm glad," Kyle said, a bit unnerved by the reminder that Stan had recently needed to consider his specific reasons to live. He kissed Stan's forehead and his eyelids. "Milking, um. That sounds great. I always loved it, too."

"Then I'll fuck you," Stan said, mumbling, and he tensed up with a grunt when his chip fired.

"Careful!" Kyle shrieked. He sat up, immediately wide awake, and appraised Stan, who was only sighing tiredly and trying to pull Kyle back into his arms. "Are - are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Stan said. "I've slipped up before, during therapy, when stuff hurts. It's okay, dude, really. I'm in the clear."

Kyle settled back down around him, and Stan was quickly asleep, but Kyle had a hard time calming down after hearing Stan curse for the first time since the surgery. He put his fingers against Stan's pulse at intervals, and reached down to squeeze Stan's ass until Stan moaned with annoyance in his sleep and shifted his legs against Kyle's. It seemed too dangerous for either of them to declare Stan 'in the clear,' now or ever. Kyle didn't get to sleep for hours.

When he woke, it was to an odd feeling that he couldn't place at first: Stan was getting back into the bed, pulling the blankets back over himself as he scooted toward Kyle. The toilet was running as if it had just been flushed. Kyle turned his cheek as Stan spooned up behind him.

"What- are you okay?" Kyle asked, feeling as if he was dreaming.

"Yeah," Stan said. He was whispering, but Kyle could hear a measure of giddiness in his voice. "Dude," Stan said, and he bit gently at Kyle's earlobe. "I had to pee, so. I got up, went in, and did it. I had to sort of throw myself against the door frame, and balance on the sink, and, you know, I still had to - sit. But I did it, though. There and back again. I just did it."

"That's awesome," Kyle said, rolling over in Stan's arms. He squirmed against Stan's chest, glad that things had gone well in there, and that he could go back to sleep.

"I can't believe how vindicating that was," Stan said. He sounded as if he was trying to contain gleeful laughter, and his hand was moving on Kyle's back in a wide awake way. "Like, I feel like I just climbed a mountain. Or ran a marathon. I didn't even use the walker, Kyle!"

Kyle began to understand that Stan wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon, and that he wanted company to celebrate this small but significant victory. He arched up to give Stan a congratulatory kiss, waking a bit more when Stan returned it breathlessly, licking into Kyle's mouth. Soon they were pawing at each other in their usual pre-sex way, grinding their growing erections against each other's thighs. Kyle clambered on top of Stan, wanting him to lie back and relax after so many milestones.

"I'll never pee on you again," Stan promised, and Kyle laughed into his mouth.

"It didn't even bother me, really," Kyle said.

"That is such a weird thing to say, dude."

"No, it's not! I mean - I hated that it upset you so much. But it was just, you know, a minor inconvenience."

"Not to me," Stan said, and he flipped Kyle onto his back with surprising strength. Pre-dawn light filtered in around the edges of the curtains, and Kyle could see that Stan was serious, and that he shouldn't laugh. "I need to be able to take care of myself," Stan said. "And you, sometimes. When you need me to. If you do."

"I do," Kyle said, nodding. He spread his legs around Stan's weight, suddenly wanting sex very badly, whereas a few minutes before he'd just wanted more sleep. "Please, I do need you. Please, Stan."

He wasn't sure why he was begging, when Stan clearly had plans to give him what he wanted anyway, but it felt good to ask and receive. Stan lasted longer than he usually did, going slow and taking long breaks to kiss Kyle's mouth and neck. Kyle let his head loll on the pillow and moaned shamelessly, his legs wrapped around Stan's back. This was his favorite thing, he decided: barely awake, pressed under Stan's weight, filled up with him, waiting to arch into the next set of shallow thrusts. He came just from the rub of Stan's hard stomach on his cock, and Stan cursed softly in Kyle's ear as he reached his own climax. His chip didn't seem to go off, maybe because it was kind of a non-word, somewhere between _shit_ and _fuck_. It didn't sound dirty, anyway, just amazed.

They lingered in bed, clinging to each other under the heat of the blankets, the temperature having dropped overnight. Kyle thought about how they would soon have a fire in the room during the night, and how different it would be this winter. They could make a bed of blankets and pillows near the hearth and have each other right there on the floor by the glow of the fire. Kyle rubbed his smile against Stan's neck, still unwilling to get out of bed, cuddled too comfortably into his daydreams.

"Do you think we'll have to move upstairs?" Kyle asked when they were finally on their way to the hospital, Stan wearing his new coat. He'd left the mittens behind for the time being. "After you're climbing stairs, I mean," Kyle said.

"I guess we could," Stan said. "But my old bed is small, and we'll need the fireplace in the winter."

"I was just thinking that, too," Kyle said. "About the fireplace, I mean. But what about Tweek? He's up in your dad's old office, with no fireplace."

"So are Jimbo and Ned, in Shelly's old room."

"Yeah, but they've got Jimbo's body fat, plus, it's the two of them. Tweek's all alone."

"He could move down to the living room for the winter," Stan said. "Hey, and listen - I want to go see Craig soon."

"Seriously?" Kyle said, thinking of the encounter at the market, Craig's warning about the slap he was holding back.

"Yeah, as soon as I can walk up to his door. Before Thanksgiving, I think, if I stay on this pace. Then we could invite him to Thanksgiving."

"Weren't you listening last night?" Kyle asked, laughing. "I mean, I guess we could still ask Craig to come, I'm sure they'd want him there, but Thanksgiving is going to be a communal thing. Bebe's planning on winning this election, and then she's marrying Clyde on Thanksgiving. The whole town's invited, basically."

"Oh, right." Stan snorted. "Clyde _would_ get married on Thanksgiving."

"He so would, yeah. It's perfect."

Stan continued to make progress with his therapy, and by the start of November, when the first real snow came, he was making his way around the house without even needing the walker, though he did take frequent rests between tasks. He still couldn't walk to the hospital, but Jimbo had begun driving him and Kyle to and from Hell's Pass once the roads got icy, though they were much more well-maintained than they had been the winter before. Stan's last real use of the wheelchair was while waiting in line to vote on election day. It seemed like the whole town had turned out, and the line was long. There was only one race, with most local government positions assigned to Canadian officials, but it felt like an important one to the people of South Park: the incumbent mayor who'd let the town go to shit during the war versus Bebe Stevens, adorably gap-toothed war hero who had invited them all to watch her wed her high school sweetheart, also a war hero, in a few weeks' time. Not surprisingly, she won by a landslide. Kyle had never seen Gregory look as thrilled as he did at Bebe's victory celebration, marching Bebe around with his arm around her shoulders as if she was a daughter he was proud to have reared so well.

"Craig didn't come to the party," Stan said when Kyle was driving them home. They'd borrowed Jimbo's truck, and Kyle was wishing that he had one of his own, with big snow tires, comfortably high off the road. He'd been thinking about cutting into what he'd come to think of as his college fund, wondering if he could get a decent truck for a couple thousand dollars.

"Of course Craig didn't come," Kyle said. "He's in love with her fiancé. He doesn't want to see her celebrate a victory of any kind."

"I wish Craig could just get over Clyde."

"Easy for you to say," Kyle was offended on Craig's behalf, still able to feel a certain kind of empathy for his situation, though Kyle had ended up with his own childhood best friend after all. Stan reached over to squeeze Kyle's thigh.

"I bet Wendy's already over me," he said. "I bet she's met some really sophisticated people in the city."

"Denver isn't known for its sophistication, but maybe. I hope she's healthy, anyway. I think that flu is a full scale epidemic now."

"Damn. People are dying of it?"

"I think only the weak and infirm are susceptible to the worst of it, but apparently it's got the whole city in a panic." They'd had a bad case of the flu at the hospital that week, and Kyle had been obsessively washing his hands on a whole new level. Everyone at the reception desk had been wearing surgical masks, which made for a morbid workday.

"About Craig, though," Stan said, to Kyle's disappointment. He'd been hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere, still dreading the grim reception that Stan's attempt to thank Craig for the money would receive. "I want to go see him tomorrow. Now that I can walk up to his door, like we said."

"Fine," Kyle said. "But don't expect to be welcomed in with open arms."

"I don't expect anything, I just want him to know how I feel about what he did for us."

Kyle had trouble sleeping that night, though he wasn't sure what he was afraid of: that Craig would take back the money somehow, reach into Stan's spine and rip out what he'd paid for? He'd never thought of Craig as particularly cruel, but he was broken in some way, and Kyle could relate to how he might want to lash out. If Kyle had been preparing to watch Stan and Wendy host a Thanksgiving wedding he would certainly have felt less than charitable to anyone who dared to be happy in his presence.

Kyle called in sick to work the following morning, which was cold and biting, and was glad that Jimbo had no jobs that required the truck. Stan couldn't have made it to Craig's house on foot, and Kyle wouldn't have wanted to do so himself. The sky was overcast and the wind was freezing.

"I think I'm going to buy a car," Kyle said as they drove toward Craig's house.

"Seriously?" Stan said. "That's expensive, though. It'd cut into your school money big time."

"What school?" Kyle said. "Where am I going for college, exactly? There's nothing in South Park, and I don't want to leave you here." This had been eating at him for weeks, and he wasn't sure that it was the best time to have this discussion, on the way to Craig's lair.

"Dude, you wouldn't have to leave me," Stan said, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. "I'd come with you, and get some job to support you while you study. It'd be great. We don't have to stay in South Park forever, you know."

"But that's so crazy!" Kyle said, feeling guilty for the volume of his voice when Stan flinched. "Sorry, it's just - I've always felt so trapped here. The idea that I can just decide I'm free to go is terrifying. And I can only imagine all the fun political discussions a Broflovski from Colorado would get into on a college campus."

"You wouldn't have to enroll with that name," Stan said, and he squeezed Kyle's shoulder again, so firmly that Kyle looked over at him. "You could be a Marsh," Stan said. He smiled in a sweet, nervous way that made Kyle want to pull over and hug him.

"I would love to be a Marsh," Kyle said, and he turned back to the road before his eyes could start to water. "That's not a bad idea. I mean, it's fantastic, it's-"

"It's legal under Canadian law," Stan said. "Has been for years."

"Stan, we can't get married!" Kyle said, but he was smiling, thinking about a tiny ceremony with their friends, Stan's ring on his finger. "I mean we can, I want to, yes, but right now I just really want our own car."

"It's a pretty practical expense, I guess," Stan said. "Especially if we're gonna leave town together eventually."

"I still get so scared to hope for another great day here," Kyle said. "Trying to imagine more than that - I'm such a wimp."

"You're not a wimp, you're cautious, and you've been through a lot. It's okay to be afraid to accept that things might actually be okay. I can relate, Jesus. Every time I wake up I have this moment before I'm really awake when I'm afraid I won't be able to move my legs, or feel my dick-"

"Oh, Stan. I know-"

"But I can, and that's why I have to thank this guy," Stan said as they pulled up to the curb near Craig's house. The driveway needed shoveling, but otherwise it was a more well-kept property than the one Craig had grown up in, not far from Kenny's side of the tracks. Craig's mother and sister still lived there, and Craig lived alone, as far as Kyle knew. He was nervous about the fact that they hadn't brought the walker, but Stan made it to the front door steadily enough, Kyle's hand closed in his. Ned had made Kyle a pair of mittens, too, and they were both wearing them. Kyle felt childish as Stan rang the doorbell, as if they were two spoiled kids coming here to trick or treat and Craig would rightly tell them to get out of his yard.

It took a while for Craig to come to the door, and when he did Kyle was relieved not to find him in an open bathrobe and his underwear, which had been his fear. Craig was wearing a thin sweater that was actually rather stylish, jeans and socks.

"Oh, Christ," he said after staring at Stan and Kyle for a moment. "What's this?"

"Craig," Stan said, and Kyle realized with alarm that Stan was about to cry. "I - I want to-"

Stan broke off there and stepped forward. Kyle wanted to grab him and pull him back, for his own safety, but Stan had already thrown his arms around Craig. He pulled Craig into a crushing hug, moaning slightly, sniffling. Craig met Kyle's eyes over Stan's shoulder. He looked stunned and a little frightened.

"Thank you," Stan said when he pulled back, holding Craig by his shoulders. They were about the same height, but Stan was bulkier, especially in his coat. "Look at me, Craig, look at this. I'm standing here because of you. You did this for me. You gave me back my life, man."

"Well." Craig glanced at Kyle, then back to Stan. Kyle had never seen him at a loss for words before. "Come in. You guys should come in."

The rooms of Craig's house were dark but finely decorated, and he led them through a den that featured a large, glowing aquarium full of fish. Kyle wanted to stop and examine it, but he followed Craig and Stan into the kitchen, where Craig offered Stan a roll of paper towels. Stan looked confused for a moment, then tore one off and wiped his face with it. He was crying quietly but profusely, and his nose was dripping, too.

"Nice place," Kyle said when Craig flipped on the lights in the kitchen. Kyle had only seen such sleek appliances and spotless countertops in movies. "You must have a maid," Kyle said.

"Yeah," Craig said. He looked uncomfortable, but not unhappy, eying Stan as he blew his nose loudly into the paper towel. "She comes on Tuesdays. I overpay her, but. She used to work at the brothel, and she didn't like it. You guys can sit down." He gestured to the kitchen table, a black square surrounded by four black chairs that were polished and new looking. "Do you want a drink?"

"Craig, you don't have to wait on us," Stan said, laughing. He walked to Craig and gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder. "How've you been, man?"

"Fine," Craig said, tightly. "I'm going to have a glass of wine. Will anyone join me?"

"It's like ten in the morning," Kyle said.

"I'll take one," Stan said.

Kyle consented to having a small glass himself, since he'd fibbed his way out of work and could go home and nap after this. They sat around the kitchen table and made awkward small talk about the market. Kyle was glad that Stan had refrained from bringing up Bebe's election and the fact that the market's more established booths would soon relocate to shop fronts on Main Street, but then Stan did something even worse. He brought up the wedding.

"I'm sure you've heard about it," Stan said while Kyle's heart began to race. He was trying to figure out how to signal to Stan to shut up about this, but he supposed it was too late. "On Thanksgiving, at City Hall. Reception in the ballroom. I haven't been in the City Hall ballroom since your bar mitzvah," Stan said, looking to Kyle, whose eyes widened.

"Um, yeah," Kyle said. He glanced at Craig, who was twirling his wine glass slightly, holding the stem between his thumb and forefinger. He had very elegant, very pale hands. "That was up there with the worst days of my life."

"My mom wouldn't let me attend," Craig said, presumably referring to Kyle's bar mitzvah. "She blamed your mother for my father's death."

"Oh," Kyle said, feeling the color drain from his face. He finished his wine. For a moment there he'd been pleasantly surprised by this visit, but perhaps Craig had only meant to lure them into a false sense of security before spitting in their faces.

"She forgets," Craig said, sitting back in his chair, "That she was on the mothers' committee or whatever Sheila Broflovski's original platform was. She forgets that she was all for sticking v-chips in me and Ruby's brains."

"Well, my point is," Stan said, clumsily trying to change the subject, "That you should come. Clyde told me he wanted you for best man."

"Clyde wants me for some very specific purposes, yes," Craig said, his voice sharpening. "That doesn't mean I'm required to appease him. Or her. No, I won't be going to that joke of a wedding. It's so incredibly vain, thinking the entire town should attend."

"It's not that they think the whole town should come," Kyle said. "They really want us to. I know it's infuriating at times, but they really _are_ as earnest as they seem to be, those two. It's exhausting to the rest of us, but it's real."

"Where's Testaburger these days?" Craig asked, apparently not willing to discuss Clyde and Bebe's shared earnestness.

"In Denver," Stan said. "Doing some pre-college courses. Look, if you don't want to come to the wedding, that's cool. But Tweek is coming with me and Kyle, and he'll be all by himself when we're dancing and stuff."

"We're going to dance?" Kyle said, and he realized he shouldn't have emphasized this part. It would come off as bragging to Craig.

"Sure, dude," Stan said. "We can slow dance, anyway." He turned back to Craig. "Kyle's got no rhythm, and I've got the legs of an eighty-year-old man."

"For always?" Craig said, frowning. "Or just-?"

"Just until my muscle strength gets back to normal. It'll take a few more months. But I can walk for almost eight minutes now."

Something about that specific number, and the fact that Stan hadn't rounded it down to five or up to ten, made Kyle lay his hand on Stan's knee under the table. He was afraid he was radiating joy, even here, nervous as he was, and that Craig would take it personally, but he couldn't help it. Eight minutes. Stan smiled at him, looking slightly confused.

"Tweek," Craig said. He closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "I shouldn't have let that happen."

"You can't save everyone," Kyle said, and he was startled when Craig's eyes snapped open angrily.

"Tweek's fine," Stan said. "I mean, maybe not, but he seems to be doing really well. I think he's just lonely. If you don't want to come to the wedding, you could at least come over to the house sometime. Craig, you're our friend. I know I shut pretty much everyone out when I was in the wheelchair, but it doesn't mean I wasn't thinking about you guys, wondering how you were."

Craig scoffed. He moved his wine glass around on the table, and Kyle noticed that he had barely sipped from it.

"What's your next stop after my house?" Craig asked. "Cartman? Is he the only one left, other than me, who needs to be brought back into the fold so you two can feel good about yourselves?"

"Cartman's a lost cause," Stan said, as if that had been a serious question. "It's not about the fold, dude. I guess I can see how we come off like busybodies, but I just - you saved my life, okay? I just need you to know, whether this annoys you or not, that if you ever need anything, you can come to me for help. That's all. We'll leave you alone if you're busy."

Craig said nothing, staring at his wine glass. Kyle was tense, waiting for the final blow to fall, some awful thing said by Craig that would tarnish all the good his money had done.

"Your fish are cool," Kyle said, blurting this out before he could really decide if he should break the silence or not. "Can we look at them?"

Craig stood, and Kyle braced himself to take a glass full of wine in the face. Instead, Craig headed toward the den, beckoning for them to follow. For a moment Kyle thought they were being thrown out, but Craig walked to the fish tank and bent at the waist to examine its contents. Stan and Kyle did the same, Stan still sipping from his wine.

"This is my favorite," Craig said, pointing to an ugly brown fish that had suckered itself to the front wall of the tank. A collection of brightly colored, jauntier fish darted in and out of an elaborate coral structure behind it. "The noble tank cleaner," Craig said, putting his finger against the glass. The fish had no reaction. "He's unpleasant to look at and ignored by the others, but he doesn't care. He goes about his business and gets the job done."

"He's not unpleasant to look at," Stan said. "He's just brown."

"Well." Craig straightened, frowning a little. "Being 'just brown' in a tank full of neon and angel fish is another thing entirely."

He seemed defeated, and Kyle wanted to say something to make him feel better, but he kept trying to think in terms of fish metaphors and came up with nothing. He stood and thought about touching Craig's back in a reassuring fashion, then refrained, afraid Craig might rip his arm off like a wild animal if Kyle didn't approach him in the correct submissive fashion.

"The point is," Stan said, as if this had all been one conversation, "It's great to see you, and you're a great person. I know you don't need me to tell you that, but I want to say it anyway. You're awesome and I'll always be grateful to you." Stan hugged Craig again. Craig didn't return the hug, but he also didn't push Stan away, though he held on to Craig long enough to make Kyle a little jealous. "We'll get going," Stan said when he stepped back. "You can come over for dinner tonight if you want. Or any night."

Craig did not show up that night for dinner, which was probably a good thing, because Tweek made hot dogs and a sweet potato mash that turned out runny. A few days later they received a letter that wasn't properly mailed, just stuck in their mailbox with Tweek's name written on the front. Kyle thought it might be from Craig, but he didn't ask, not wanting to be nosy. Tweek seemed slightly more upbeat after receiving it, whatever it was, and he started going out of the house on occasion, though the winter had fully arrived and it was snowing almost daily.

With the Main Street shops reopening under new regulations, there was less price gouging on food and Kyle was able to lessen his work schedule to four days a week at Hell's Pass. He had plenty to do around the house, between keeping the fires burning and the driveway shoveled. He was shopping around for a vehicle, not wanting to make the decision too hastily. He missed his father, who would have had opinions about buying a vehicle. Stan's physical therapy sessions had been reduced to once a week, but he still depended on Jimbo for daily rides to the animal shelter, where he'd resumed his volunteering duties.

"Would it be irresponsible if I brought home a pet?" Stan asked one night when Kyle was dozing in his arms near the fireplace in their room. They had a habit of piling pillows and blankets there after dinner, having sex atop the pile and then burrowing into it before transferring the whole thing to the bed when the fire died down.

"What kind of pet?" Kyle asked, not sure how he felt about something furry sharing their quarters and competing with him for Stan's love.

"I don't know," Stan said. "A small dog? Or a cat, there are a couple of cats who are so into being with people. It just kills me that I can't give them more attention."

"Ask your mom," Kyle said. "It's still her house."

"Yeah, but you're my - partner." Stan snorted and squeezed Kyle closer. He was lying against Stan's chest, stretched out on Stan like he was a bed. "Is that the right word for it?"

"You might call me your fiancé," Kyle said. He'd had some whiskey after dinner, and he'd been thinking about this, too: nomenclature. "If that marriage suggestion was serious."

"It wasn't a suggestion," Stan said. He bent his knees and pressed his thighs to Kyle's sides, hugging him with his legs, too. "It was a proposal."

"Oh." Kyle somehow hadn't expected that response. He was running his fingertips through the dark hair on Stan's arm, still too fucked-out for a proper thought process. Sex seemed to get better on a daily basis, especially now that they could cycle through a few different positions, which helped Stan last longer. That night, they had finished with Kyle on his hands and knees, Stan behind him and thrusting hard, holding him tight around his middle. It was Kyle's favorite, their usual finale. "Well, of course I'll marry you," Kyle said when he realized that he'd left Stan hanging, lost to his sex-dazed thoughts.

"Would you call me your husband?" Stan said. He sounded like he wasn't sure if he wanted that or not.

"Yeah," Kyle said, still playing with Stan's arm hair. "Would you really let me take your name?"

"Of course, dude! I'd effing love that."

Kyle was all for being a Marsh, but he had mixed feelings about no longer being a Broflovski. Though the name essentially amounted to a powerful cultural stigma, it was one of the last connections Kyle had to his mother, and to the way their family had been when she was alive and fully present, before the war. The Broflovski household might have caved in on itself, but they hadn't always been a disaster. Kyle's parents had loved him and Ike so completely, and he had known that, growing up. He'd once been a confident, even slightly arrogant kid, and before the war he had tormented Cartman more often than it had happened the other way around. But even then, Stan had been part of Kyle's burgeoning sense of self. Kyle had always been proud that someone like Stan wanted to be around him.

They crawled into bed, slept well, and in the morning Kyle had hazy memories of making plans to marry, but neither of them pursued the subject in the days that followed. It seemed irrelevant, because Kyle felt firmly in place at Stan's side already, and he also had a pervading sense that it wasn't yet the time to make major decisions. He dragged his feet on buying a car, and Stan didn't bring any pets home from the shelter. Kyle felt like they were both waiting for some kind of sign that the probationary period of their life together was over. Maybe it would seem permanent when Stan could walk wherever he pleased without struggling, or after Bebe and Clyde's big wedding, or maybe at the end of the winter, when new starts and possibilities naturally seemed closer. Kyle didn't mind this sense of stalling, since his waiting place was so cozy, but it irked him that he couldn't decide what exactly they were waiting for or how they would know when it had come.

On the morning of Thanksgiving Ned and Tweek made a big breakfast for the whole family, and Kyle was glad to wake up to it, though he knew he would overeat again at the feast Bebe and Clyde were throwing after their wedding ceremony. Kyle had some of everything on offer: bacon, pancakes, waffles, chicken sausage and eggs. He also drank coffee, which he normally didn't do, and he was feeling wired after the meal, and a bit anxious about the evening ahead. Stan still had plans to dance, and Kyle hoped they wouldn't end in wobbly-legged embarrassment.

"I really hope Craig shows up tonight," Stan said when they were having a bath together after breakfast, Kyle lying back against Stan's chest, his legs open as widely as possible as Stan 'washed' between them thoroughly.

"Mhmm. Well, he won't, and let's not discuss him while your hand is on my dick."

"Eh, I don't know," Stan said, still stroking Kyle. "I think you might be surprised."

"I do hate to think of him alone on Thanksgiving. Nnh - harder, please?"

"You want to come?" Stan asked, murmuring this in Kyle's ear. "In the bathwater?" he said when Kyle nodded. "That's so dirty, Kyle."

Kyle laughed, but was aroused all the same, and he pressed his hips up when Stan slowed his pace.

"I wish I could carry you to the bed," Stan said, and he let got of Kyle's cock entirely, reaching down to squeeze his thighs with both hands. He pulled them apart a bit wider, until Kyle's knees lifted out of the water. Stan was breathing hard, and Kyle was, too, feeling how stiff his nipples were when the water sloshed around them, exposing them to the cold air outside the tub.

"You will," Kyle said. "Someday, yeah. I'd like that."

"I know you would," Stan said, speaking into Kyle's ear. He was hard, too, his cock jammed against the small of Kyle's back. "You like it when I take over, don't you?"

"Yes," Kyle said, nodding, his eyes closed. "Yes, I do, yeah."

"Why is that?" Stan sounded more genuinely curious than seductive.

"Because - nnh." Kyle didn't want to say the wrong thing, to make Stan feel like the only thing he'd ever really had to offer Kyle were the things the surgery had restored. "Because you like it," Kyle said, softly. "And I like, um. Giving up control to someone who wants to take good care of me. Not all the time, just. In bed, you know? Like that night when you told me you were going to milk me. Just - yeah. That's what I like. Tell me how you're going to make me feel good, then do it."

He wasn't sure he'd articulated that very well, but Stan seemed pleased, his hands roaming over Kyle's chest, pausing to toy with his nipples. They got out of the bath and dried off hurriedly, still half-damp when they fell into the bed. Stan turned Kyle onto his stomach and gave him a long, slow fuck that left him drooling and sleepy, lying in a puddle of his own come. They moved onto the dry side of the bed and curled up together as their sweat dried and the cold in the room reached them. There was no fire, but Kyle was too drowsy to get up and make one. He slept for most of the day, waking when Stan kissed his neck and whispered that they should get ready for the wedding. For a moment Kyle was so groggy that he thought Stan was talking about their own wedding, and he caught himself imagining his mother in attendance, wiping at her eyes.

It was dark early that night, and very cold. Kyle wanted to stay in and eat turkey by the fire rather than attending a big party, but he knew that wasn't an option. He was wearing his best suit, which had the unpleasant effect of reminding him of his mother's memorial service. It was also too small, the sleeves barely coming to his wrists and the pants a little tight at the waist.

"I'm getting fat," he said on the drive to City Hall, bundled up in the truck bed with Stan and Tweek. Sharon, Ned and Jimbo were riding in the cab.

"You are not," Stan said, and he laughed as if the idea was absurd. "It's muscle, from your running."

"I haven't been for a run since October." The feeling of freedom and tranquility had greatly diminished when the weather got cold.

"We'll start up again in spring," Stan said, tucking Kyle more snugly against him. "Me and you, together. Tweek, you could join us."

"No, uh – no, thanks!" Tweek was shivering inside his coat, despite the blankets Sharon had packed into the truck bed for their journey. "I can't really run, um. I have a heart defect."

"I didn't know that," Stan said.

"It's not a big deal," Tweek said, muttering. He seemed kind of down, and Kyle wondered if he was dreading the evening ahead, his first public appearance since retiring from the brothel. It had been shut down after Bebe offered the girls working there better jobs in town, mostly physical labor like clearing snow from the sidewalks on Main Street and garbage collection. They'd all jumped at the chance to change careers, and Liane had transformed the place into a boarding house, still bartending down in the kitchen for the regulars.

City Hall was crowded when they arrived, and they hurried into the court room where Bebe and Clyde would be wed, hoping to find a seat. There weren't many left, and Jimbo and Ned opted to stand at the back while Sharon squeezed in with some other South Park mothers. Tweek was narrow enough to find space toward the front, and Kyle had resigned to simply standing when he saw someone waving to him. It was Wendy, and Kyle grabbed Stan's hand when he saw Token sitting beside her.

"Look!" Kyle said, waving back when Token lifted his hand and grinned. "Oh, wow, look who it is."

"Wendy," Stan said, and he sounded very relieved to see her, in a way that pricked at Kyle's old jealous tendencies. "And Token, Jesus. Hey!"

"We saved you seats," Wendy said, standing when Kyle and Stan came to the aisle where they were sitting. "Well, sort of, if you don't mind squeezing in." She laughed when Stan grabbed her for a hug. "Hey, yeah," she said, patting his back and smiling at Kyle from over his shoulder. "Great to see you - oh, God." She moved back and peered up at Stan. "You look-" She was nodding down at Stan's feet, her eyes getting wet. "So great."

"How've you been?" Token asked when Kyle moved around Stan and Wendy, giving them a moment.

"Fine," Kyle said, and he hugged Token hello, feeling a bit awkward about it. He hadn't seen Token since his family moved away at the start of high school, and he looked especially grown up in the American officer's uniform he was wearing. "I mean, really good," Kyle said. "It's been really good. You're an officer?"

"Was," Token said, and he shrugged. "I guess Clyde's going to wear his dress uniform during the ceremony, so. I figured, what the hell. Probably the last time I'll get to wear it."

"You look great in it," Stan said, coming forward to hug Token. They gave each other soldierly slaps on the back while embracing. Kyle turned to Wendy, feeling timid. She smiled and touched his tie.

"Looking nice," she said. "How's it been?"

"Great," Kyle said. He didn't want to brag, but he wasn't going to lie. "You're okay in Denver? No flu-like symptoms?"

"Oh, no." Wendy rolled her eyes. "My roommate had it, but I barricaded myself away from her, and now I've got the inoculation."

"We've just started giving it out at Hell's Pass," Kyle said. He'd already had his, and so had Stan and Sharon. "Well, I'm glad you're okay," he said, meaning her health, and he flushed when he heard himself.

"I'm fine," Wendy said, and she pulled him into a hug. "Trying not to cry," she said, whispering this into Kyle's ear. "He just. Seeing him walk."

"I know," Kyle said, and he hugged her back, tightly.

The music began while they were still making small talk, Clyde and the rest of the groom's party streaming out from a side door and coming to stand in front of the empty judicial bench. The judge they'd selected for the ceremony was standing in front of it: a tubby man who looked too young to be wearing a black robe. Kyle was disheartened but not surprised to see that Craig hadn't changed his mind about being Clyde's best man at the last minute. Clyde's best man was his father, and the only other groomsman was Gregory, who looked annoyingly good in a suit. Kyle straightened his jacket and sat down between Wendy and Stan. The seating was snug, and he could feel the heat of Wendy's thigh against his, but it was only weird for a moment. She reached over to hold his hand, and Kyle gave her a smile, glad for it. She looked beautiful, in a pale blue dress that came to her knees and made her gray eyes look wintry in a jewel-like way.

"We've missed you," Kyle said, speaking quietly as the din in the room began to die down. "Are you coming back to South Park soon?"

"For Christmas," Wendy said, nodding. "But after that I'm headed to Ohio, to Oberlin. I got in, and they're letting me start taking a few classes during spring semester."

"Oh, that's awesome." Kyle was a bit envious, and also sad to hear that she wouldn't be coming home. "I'm really happy for you," Kyle said, and he squeezed her hand.

"Me too," Wendy said. She squeezed back before letting go. "For you, I mean, you and Stan. I really am."

"Hmm?" Stan said, hearing his name and leaning across Kyle.

"Nothing," Wendy said, grinning. "We're talking about you."

"Oh, alright," Stan said. He smirked and rested his arm on Kyle's thigh. They were close enough that it was necessary. Kyle didn't mind, and as the music for Bebe's entrance began, he laid his hand over Stan's.

Bebe wore a white dress with blue accents and carried a bouquet of dark red roses. Kyle thought the choice to wear patriotic colors was pretty tacky, but Bebe pulled it off with grace, her hair still neat and chin-length, two little braids pinned back into a tiara-like crown at the back of her head. The ceremony itself was quite basic, mostly legal language, but Clyde blubbered through his lines anyway, crying openly. When they were pronounced man and wife, Bebe turned to the crowd and beamed, lifting both arms jubilantly, Clyde's hand in one and her bouquet in the other. Kyle laughed when he saw the thick blond hair under her arms.

"Oh, lord, Bebe," Wendy said, but she was smiling as she applauded along with everyone else.

The basic City Hall ballroom that had served as a kind of cavernous stage of humiliation during Kyle's bar mitzvah had been transformed into a space that glowed with warmth and smelled like cinnamon, apples and roasted meat. Kyle was hungry, despite the big breakfast, and he was not ashamed to be among the first people who made for the buffet. There was a whole town to feed, after all, and he didn't want to miss out.

"Are you okay?" Kyle asked Stan as they waited in line to fill their plates. Token and Wendy had drifted off to say hi to more people who'd missed them.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Stan said. "I got a break to sit during the ceremony, and we'll sit when we eat, and then I'll be rested up for dancing."

"Why are you so obsessed with that?" Kyle asked, embarrassed by the thought of dancing. He wasn't even good at the slow kind, and the last time he'd tried it had been in this very room, with Wendy, during his bar mitzvah.

"Because - I don't know," Stan said. "It's just one of those things."

Kyle knew what Stan meant: it was one of those things he thought he'd never do again. Kyle kissed Stan's cheek, moved past the salad and took a generous scoop of stuffing. He loaded up on turkey, gravy, potatoes and some fresh cranberry dressing, and was embarrassed by the weight of his plate as he searched for a place to sit, though also excited about devouring it. He saw Tweek sitting alone at one of the tables that were arranged around the space that had been left in front of the stage for dancing. He was picking at a plate that seemed to contain nothing but turkey and gravy.

"What have you got against starch?" Kyle asked, sitting down beside him. Stan followed, taking the seat at Kyle's other side.

"Huh?" Tweek looked up from his plate with a frightened expression, as if Kyle was seriously trying to pick a fight over Tweek's aversion to empty calories.

"Your plate - never mind. Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," Tweek said, eying Stan, who was shoveling stuffing into his mouth. Kyle turned and took a moment to admire him, momentarily distracted by how arousing he found Stan's appetite to be. There was something so delightfully _normal_ about it, after all the abnormal things they'd been through.

"What'd you think of the ceremony?" Kyle asked. Tweek shrugged.

"Um, Bebe looked pretty. Clyde cried a lot!"

"He sure did." Kyle felt bad leaving Tweek to pick at his turkey in silence, but he couldn't wait any longer to dig in, so he did. Sharon, Jimbo, and Ned joined them at the table, which had ten seats. Stan waved Wendy and her parents over, and soon there was only one empty seat, on the other side of Tweek. Kyle was too busy eating to notice that someone had taken it until he looked up from his plate and saw that the person was Craig, clean shaven, well-dressed, and looking more handsome than Kyle had ever seen him, eye patch and all.

"You came!" Tweek was saying, for possibly the third time, clutching at Craig's arm. "You seriously came!"

"Yes, Tweek," Craig said. He had no food; Kyle wasn't surprised. "I'm fashionably late, but I'm here. Stop remarking on it. People are staring."

"Oh, shoot, we're not staring, soldier!" Jimbo said. "Just glad to see ya. Been a long time since I seen you outside of the Supermarket."

"Well, there is no more Supermarket," Craig said. "Bebe offered us a business license and a lease that was more than fair, but Cartman was a little bitch about it - excuse me," he said, glancing at Sharon and Wendy's mother. "And now we've split up the business. I'll be opening a small specialty foods store near Main Street, and Cartman - well, God knows what his plan is, but he certainly got his share of the money."

"That's good!" Tweek said, still holding on to Craig's arm. "Cartman, ah. He wasn't a good business partner."

"He wasn't," Craig said, and he touched Tweek's hand. "Eat your dinner, for God's sake. You're so thin."

"Aren't you going to get a plate, hon?" Sharon asked. Craig shrugged.

"Maybe," he said. "Buffets make me twitchy. You never know who might have touched your dinner roll while reaching for his."

Craig was looking across the room rather pointedly, and Kyle turned to see why. He jerked with surprise when he saw Cartman at the bar, not only because he had never expected Cartman to show up to this, but because Cartman looked like absolute hell even from a distance. He was unshaven, his beard patchy and his hair longer than Kyle had ever seen it, greasy and touching his ears. He was wearing a suit, but it didn't look especially clean.

"Oh, God, he came?" Wendy said. "Stan's letter said he bought your house," she said, turning to Kyle, who blushed, not sure why this was so embarrassing in mixed company.

"Yeah," Kyle said. "I haven't seen him - he looks bad."

"He just came for the free bar," Stan said, and Kyle stiffened when he heard the barely concealed hatred in Stan's voice. Stan was holding his knife and fork in fists on the table, staring at Cartman. Kyle hadn't considered that Stan might be able enough to inflict whatever physical damage he could on Cartman. It was the first time Stan had been in the same room with Cartman since Kyle told him about the deal that Craig's money saved him from having to make. Kyle touched Stan's shoulder, and he shook his head when Stan turned to him.

"Just ignore him," Kyle said. Stan huffed and turned back to his plate, forking a potato like he wanted to kill it.

Kyle tried to refocus on the dinner conversation, but he was acutely aware that Cartman was in the room, and he kept checking the crowd from the corner of his eye, expecting Cartman to blunder over and say something humiliating that would start a fist fight with Stan. Though he'd regained an impressive amount of strength, Stan was still fragile, and Cartman would be able to hurt him if he wanted to. Kyle remembered the frightening weight that had borne down on him in Butters' bedroom the year before, how easily Cartman had held him to the bed and how pathetically outmatched he'd felt when he struggled. He turned around slightly, not wanting Stan to notice how nervous he'd become, but Stan held his gaze in a knowing way when he turned back to the table.

"The music's starting," Kyle said, hoping to distract him. Stan leaned over to kiss his cheek.

"Let's wait for a slow song," Stan said. Kyle nodded and glanced across the table at Wendy, hoping she hadn't noticed that. She was talking with Gregory, who had his arm around Christophe's waist. Kyle had never seen them be affectionate toward each other in public before, and it took him a moment to notice that Christophe seemed pretty wasted. He was smiling down at Wendy with hooded eyelids and swaying a little in Gregory's grip.

"We're going to head home," Gregory said, glancing at Christophe anxiously. "Though I hate to miss the cake."

"'Ey, moneybags," Christophe said, saluting Craig. "You're showing your face among the common people?"

"Forgive him," Gregory said, leading Christophe away. "He's been – it's a difficult holiday for him."

Christophe said something in French that sounded derisive, but he allowed Gregory to walk him away, toward the coat room in the lobby. Kyle heard him muttering about colonialist pigs before the music drowned him out. He glanced over at Stan's wine glass, which had been refilled three times since they'd taken their seats. Stan still liked to drink, and not always in a purely festive way. So did Christophe, it seemed, and Craig, and Cartman was stumbling around somewhere, shit-faced. Kyle again felt left out of something that he never would have chosen for himself anyway, and he signaled to the waiter. At least if he got a little drunk, dancing with Stan in front of everyone wouldn't feel so strange.

Despite the large meal, it only took a few glasses of wine for Kyle to start to feel tipsy. Stan had more, too, and Craig and Wendy both got louder and more prone to throwing their heads back in laughter as their glasses were refilled and the older people headed for the dance floor or outside to smoke, in Ned's case. Jimbo and Sharon were dancing together, and something about this bothered Kyle. He elbowed Stan, who'd been talking to Token about his officer training.

"Do you think if we danced," Kyle said, hearing how drunk he was when he spoke, "That, um, Jimbo and Ned would like, be inspired? To dance in front of people, I mean?"

"Maybe," Stan said, and he slung his arm around the back of Kyle's chair, tugging it closer to his own. "Look how happy they are," he said, and he nodded to Bebe and Clyde, who were in the center of the dance floor. The music was still lively and spirited, a fast song, but they were swaying together as if they were hearing something slower, smiling at each other and kissing chastely. Kyle whirled toward Craig, wanting to shield his good eye from seeing this, but he had his back to the dance floor, maybe intentionally. He was talking to Tweek, who was laughing like a school girl at whatever Craig was saying, his hands pressed over his mouth.

"Look how happy Tweek is, though," Kyle said, speaking into Stan's ear. Stan nodded and shushed him, grinning.

"You're loud," he said, tugging on Kyle's tie. Kyle shrugged.

"I always am." He'd meant that to sound seductive, but Stan laughed and turned back to Token.

"Tweek lives with us," Stan said.

"Wendy told me," Token said. "That's, uh. Thanks for that. We left town right after his mother died. I felt bad about that. He needed – someone."

"He does our dishes," Kyle said, shouting this over the music. Stan snorted and put a finger over Kyle's mouth.

"We're gonna go dance or something," Stan said, scooting his chair back. "Kyle's kind of tanked."

"I'm not tanked!" He'd only had a few glasses – two or three? – but he did feel unhinged in a way that he hadn't since last year, since Butters' party. Distantly, he began to wonder if someone had put something in his drink. He turned to survey the room as Stan pulled him up from his chair. Cartman was nowhere to be found.

"You okay?" Stan asked as they made their way to the edge of the dance floor, Stan's hand steady on Kyle's back. Kyle nodded and clutched at his arm. It didn't matter where Cartman was or wasn't: Stan was here, with him. Nothing bad could happen as long as that was true.

The band finished what they were playing and started another song. It wasn't especially slow or romantic, but the guitar chords were a lazy strum, and people were pairing up to sway together. Stan took Kyle's hand, and Kyle found that he was glad to be pulled onto the dance floor after all, not embarrassed. No one was looking at them, anyway, not even when Stan held Kyle so close that he could rest his tired head on Stan's shoulder. He closed his eyes at moments, trying to listen to the singer's lyrics so he could remember the song and find it on an audio tape at the black market later, if someone was making a bootleg recording. But the black market was gone – the war was over. It finally seemed true.

"Falling asleep?" Stan asked, and Kyle lifted his head.

"No," he said, though he had been, a little. He touched the back of Stan's neck, ticking his hairline, and grinned when he felt Stan shiver. "Are you alright?" Kyle asked, remembering Stan's legs. "We could – we don't have to do the whole song."

"Yeah, we do," Stan said. "I'm fine, we were sitting for like three hours."

"We were?" Kyle said.

"Yeah, dude." Stan kissed Kyle's forehead. "Sorry I let you get so sloshed. I didn't realize—"

"I'm not that sloshed," Kyle said, and he hugged himself to Stan again, his face partly hidden against Stan's neck as they turned in slow circles amid the crowd of other couples. "And anyway, it's Thanksgiving. I can get a little, uh. Tipsy."

The next song was faster, but Stan pulled Kyle back when he tried to move off the dance floor. When Kyle saw the nervous hope in Stan's eyes he laughed and let himself be pulled. He was careless enough to not mind his own lack of rhythm, and the other guests who were still at the reception seemed largely to be in the same state as Kyle, or worse. Kyle could see that Stan was wearing out toward the end of the song, and he dragged Stan back to the table by both hands, still sort of dancing.

"I'll get our coats," Kyle said when Stan fell gladly into his seat. Jimbo and Ned were not dancing themselves, but they had returned to the table and were talking together in an intimate way, Jimbo's elbow on the table, chin in his hand as he smiled dazedly at Ned, who was saying more than Kyle had ever seen, though he couldn't make out the words. Sharon was talking with Dr. Testaburger and Wendy, and she gave Kyle an encouraging smile when she heard him mention the coats. Kyle was ready to be home, to collapse under the blankets with Stan for sex or sleep: he was prepared for either one.

He realized as he headed toward the coat room that the reception hall was only a quarter as full as it had been during the dinner service. People were trickling out, to their cars or to the fleet of taxis Bebe had enlisted to take drunk guests home. The coat room was actually the clerk's office near the court room where Bebe and Clyde's ceremony had taken place. The ballroom either didn't have one or didn't have a big enough one – Kyle wasn't sure, since it had been warm enough on the weekend of his bar mitzvah that they hadn't rented one along with the ballroom. Thinking of that afternoon, he felt suddenly strange, and annoyed by how disorganized the coats were. He found his and Stan's easily enough, and Sharon's overcoat with the embroidery around the collar, but Jimbo and Ned's drab military-style jackets were harder to locate.

Just as he was finally digging them out of a pile of less dignified coats near the back, he heard the door to the clerk's office close. The whole room was lit only by the clerk's desk lamp, but even before he turned to peer through the shadows between them, Kyle sensed who was standing in front of the door. Cartman seemed almost as big as the door itself, hulking there like an enemy from one of the video games they'd played together as kids, blocking the only exit.

"What do you want?" Kyle asked, rising with all five coats bundled into his arms. They were heavy, and his legs felt unsteady from a combination of too much drinking and sudden, all-consuming fear. It was quiet in the clerk's office, which was down a long hallway from the ballroom, far enough to block out the sound of the music now that the door was closed.

"Maybe I'm just looking for my coat," Cartman said. When he took a step away from the door, Kyle could see that he was unsteady, too, very drunk. Cartman caught himself on a bookshelf and laughed. "Look at you, Jesus," he said as he came closer. "I can see you shaking from here."

"I'm not," Kyle said, though he was. "I can smell you from here, God. Did you plug up all the shower drains in my house already?"

He wasn't sure that made sense, but it was supposed to be a dig about the fact that Cartman's body odor was almost as thick as the reek of whiskey that was rising off of him as he came closer. Kyle realized too late that he should have moved instead of standing his ground, because now he was trapped in the back corner of the room, Cartman closing in on him.

"Your house?" Cartman said. "You don't have a house, bitch." He growled and flinched backward when his chip fired. Kyle took the opportunity to try to dart around him, but Cartman caught his shoulder and tossed him back into the corner, upsetting Kyle's balance. He fell hard on his ass and bit down on his tongue to keep from cursing. The last thing he needed was a v-chip blow. He scrambled to recollect the coats and tried to stand, but Cartman was looming over him, his hands splayed on the wall behind Kyle.

"Get away from me," Kyle said.

"No," Cartman said. "I want to see how much – hah, how much I can do to you before you start screaming for help."

Kyle leaned back and kicked at him desperately, hitting him in the knee and then the inside of his thigh, not quite connecting with his balls. To Kyle's surprise, two glancing blows were enough to send Cartman crumpling toward the floor, and Kyle vaulted over him, losing only one of the coats. He bolted for the door, his heart thundering in his ears, so loudly that he didn't notice Cartman's sobbing until he was within reach of the doorknob.

Confused, Kyle turned back. He hadn't really kicked Cartman that hard, and certainly not hard enough to make him cry like that, high-pitched and whining like a little boy, his head pressed to the floor, fists jammed over his eyes. Kyle decided it wasn't his problem and turned for the door again.

"Butters," Cartman cried, and Kyle paused, the doorknob half-turned. "Butters, ah, God, Butters, he – Kyle, you fuh, fucking- ngh!"

Cartman jerked violently, struck by his v-chip. He lifted his face from the floor, and Kyle shrunk backward he saw Cartman's expression, frightened by it. Cartman didn't look enraged or even remotely dangerous. He looked irreversibly broken, and Kyle was struck by the absurd feeling that he had just kicked a helpless child.

"He died for your piece of crap boyfriend," Cartman said, still crying hard, his face a mess of tears and snot. "For Stan. Effing Stan! So you guh – got what you wanted again, Kyle, you sneaky Jew, like always, you get everything. And what the hell did I get? I didn't even – he never told me, until – and now he's dead, Kyle, and I've got nothing. Fucking – nnh – nobody!"

"Cartman," Kyle said, and the taste of that name in his mouth reminded him how ridiculous it would be to try to comfort Cartman after everything he'd said and done. Kyle turned and left him weeping hysterically against the floor, collapsing into in a puddle of his own tears.

Kyle hardly remembered where he was as he made his way back to the ballroom, hugging the coats to his chest. He was shaken, but returning to the warm light of the party and the sound of laughter and music calmed him somewhat. He hurried to their table, which was one of the last ones that was occupied, most of the remaining party guests dancing shamelessly in a semi-cohesive group, Bebe and Clyde at the center of them.

"You okay?" Stan asked when he looked up at Kyle and saw his face. Kyle nodded and handed Stan his coat, realizing as he did that the one he'd dropped had been his own. He didn't care; it was old, a tattered relic from high school, and Kyle certainly wasn't going back for it. "You sure?" Stan asked, and Kyle nodded again, moving to give the others their coats.

"Tweek went home with Craig," Sharon said as Kyle helped her into her coat. "He's – oh, honey, what's wrong?" she asked when she turned to him.

"Nothing," Kyle said. He forced a smile. "I'm – I got sick in the bathroom. Too much wine."

"Oh." Sharon touched his cheek. "You do feel a little warm."

"Where's your coat?" Stan asked, coming over to them as Jimbo and Ned shrugged their jackets on.

"I think someone must have stolen it," Kyle said. "I looked through all of them, and. It's gone."

"Gee, I wonder who might have taken it," Stan said, and he scoffed. "Jesus. As soon as I'm well enough, I'm kicking Cartman's fat ass." Stan grimaced at the curse, and Kyle and Sharon groaned reproachfully.

"No," Kyle said. "Let's just – forget him."

"I saw Liane earlier," Sharon said. "She seemed remarkably fine, considering what she's been through. I wish she would have accepted more help, ah. Before resorting to what she did."

"Is she still here?" Kyle asked.

"I think so," Sharon said, looking around. Kyle did too, and he spotted Liane near the back of the room, giggling with the bartender.

"I'm gonna get some water for the ride home," Kyle said.

"Good idea," Sharon said.

Kyle hurried over, hoping that the bartender could accommodate this request. He didn't really care about getting water, though it would probably help clear his head and prevent a hangover.

"Hey," Kyle said to Liane when he got there, and she turned from her flirting, looking surprised to see him.

"Hello!" she said. "Sheila's little boy, oh, look at you! All grown up." She touched Kyle's cheek, and he flinched away as politely as possible.

"Eric needs you," Kyle said, annoyed with himself but unable to suppress the feeling that something should be done. "He's in the coat room, he's. Upset."

"Oh." This seemed to sober her quickly, and she nodded to herself, hugging her clutch purse to her chest. "Yes - thank you, Eric is very - he has a low tolerance for alcohol, the poor dear."

"Yeah," Kyle said. He could see that she understood more than that, but he wasn't interested in discussing it. He turned to the bartender, who gave him a plastic cup of water as Liane headed for the coat room, her heels clacking nosily down the marble hallway.

On the drive home it was just Kyle and Stan in the truck bed, and Kyle pulled the frosty blankets over his legs while Stan closed him into his coat, sharing it with him. Despite the bumpy road and the freezing air, it was a romantic way to travel, and Kyle pressed his face to Stan's throat to keep his nose and cheeks warm.

"Check out the stars," Stan said. "You never used to see them this bright, remember? When we were kids, I mean, in town. There was too much light pollution."

Kyle peeked up at the sky, not as interested in the stars as he was in hiding inside Stan's coat, for comfort as much as warmth. He was still shaken by being cornered and threatened by Cartman, and even more so by what he'd seen afterward, how easily his lifelong enemy had toppled. Kyle was already having a hard time believing how fearful Cartman had become in his imagination in the past year and even earlier in the evening, when really he was small and sad. He hadn't even left South Park, but the war had thoroughly crippled him. Kyle was still too angry to feel sorry for Cartman, but he felt a vague sympathy for the boy he had been, and how the war had doomed him to invest in all of his worst qualities.

In bed that night, Kyle was too tired and fuzzy-headed to do much more than kiss Stan under the blankets, and Stan seemed to be in a similar state of sleepy half-arousal, his fingers combing through Kyle's curls while they pressed together with aimless, fading energy. Kyle fell asleep with his head resting on Stan's bicep and his ankle pushed between Stan's. His dreams were a muddled combination of whimsy and horror, and when he woke from them he nuzzled himself more deeply into the heat of Stan's body, glad they would be able to sleep late. He already had a bit of a headache, and was wishing that one of them had thought to make a fire.

Kyle woke early, to the sound of Stan crumpling up some newspaper for kindling. When the fire was going strong Stan launched himself back into the bed in a way that made Kyle laugh, and he held up the blankets, gathering Stan back into his arms. They took turns inside each other that morning, something they had done only once before, and Kyle was still slightly uncomfortable doing the thrusting, afraid that he might stab at some awkward angle that would compromise Stan's carefully reconstructed nerves. He was still hard when he pulled out, and he didn't have to ask to get what he wanted: Stan flipped Kyle over and slid in, already slick. Kyle groaned, nodding as Stan sunk into him, allowing his spine to liquefy. He came all over himself in less than a minute. He'd been waiting for this feeling, not wanting to let go until Stan was inside him.

"Would you want to get married like that?" Stan asked when they were back under the newly warm blankets, sticky and spent. "The way Bebe did, I mean."

"No!" Kyle said. "Not in a dress."

"I meant - you know what I meant," Stan said when Kyle grinned.

"Nah, it's too much." Kyle thought of the coat room. No matter what, he did not want a coat room involved when they got married. "I'd just like something small. In the backyard, maybe in the spring, when it gets nice. For my birthday, even - we could get married on my birthday!"

"We could," Stan said, and the way he was smiling made Kyle realize how stupidly exuberant he'd sounded just then, but he wasn't really embarrassed.

Life began to normalize for them in December, and Kyle gradually stopped waiting for the bottom to fall out. Token had decided to stay in town, having lost his position with the Air Force after Canada took over. He and Stan quickly reconnected, and they were making plans to build an elaborate hothouse and packaging facility on Jimbo's property near the mountains, so that they would have a leg up on the purely government-funded start up farms. Stan still spent most of his work hours at the animal shelter, but at night he was often up late in the kitchen with Token and Jimbo, going over blueprints, legal restrictions and sales strategies. Kyle would wait for him in bed with a book, keeping himself hard under the blankets, often ready to burst with anticipation by the time Stan joined him.

Kyle helped them with the farm plans when he felt like it, but he wasn't especially interested in the project and had his own work to do. The library had been outfitted with five brand new computers that had access to a Canadian internet provider, and Kyle waited in the long lines to use the computers almost daily, doing research on colleges and about anything else that had crossed his mind in the past ten years, when he'd had no unbiased access to world news. Most of what he found was still at least a little biased, but the range of perspectives was much more broad than the local newspapers and whatever radio signals they had been able pick up when they'd had working power lines or batteries to spare. He was nowhere close to deciding on a college, but he had lots of notes, and wasn't in a hurry to decide. He wanted to apply for the fall semester the following year, after their little backyard marriage ceremony. Sometimes he jotted plans for it in the margins of his college research: he would want some small element from both of their religions involved, though neither of them was particularly devout, and Kyle would want Christophe to be his best man, while Stan would probably want Token. Kyle felt a bit silly for even thinking seriously about marrying at twenty, but if the war had taught them anything it was that life could be too short for hesitation, and Kyle had no doubt that he wanted to spend the rest of his with Stan.

On the morning before the first night of Hanukkah, Kyle dug out the menorah that he had taken from his parent's house after their things had all been packed up. Most of the furniture and decor had been sold at the market, and Kyle and Gerald had divided the more sentimental objects. Kyle had been surprised that Gerald had let him keep this, and also surprised by how much he'd wanted it. He set it on the mantle over the fireplace in his and Stan's room, toasted a stale English muffin in the kitchen and ate it on the walk to town. Stan had left for the shelter while Kyle was still half-asleep, under the impression that Kyle had an afternoon shift at the hospital. Kyle wanted to surprise Stan by picking him up from the shelter later in the car he'd arranged to buy in town: a seven-year-old Cadillac, in pretty good shape and only two thousand dollars. Christophe had gone to look at it with him a few days before, proclaimed it to be a good deal and promised to help Kyle with the few repairs it needed, for a fee. Gregory was trying to get him to open a garage, and had been researching engine repair-compatible prostheses, which apparently weren't as crazy as they sounded.

In the meantime, the car was in good enough shape to drive, and it had been outfitted with new snow tires to encourage the sale. Kyle couldn't help grinning like a kid with a new toy as he drove around town in it, aimlessly at first, and then back to Main Street to pick up some candles. He found some that would fit in the menorah at a shop that made homemade soaps and candies as well. The shop was called 'Malleable,' and Kyle found the concept of a texture-based product line a bit unnerving and strange, but he was glad for the candles. He didn't want to make a big deal out of the holiday: he just wanted to light the menorah after dinner and gaze at it while he was curled up in bed with Stan.

"Seriously?" Stan said when he turned from locking up the shelter and saw Kyle leaning against the Cadillac, his arms stretched out along the roof. "Where'd you get that?"

"The owner was selling it in town," Kyle said, and he leaned into Stan's congratulatory hug. "I kept seeing the sticker on the way to the hospital, freezing my ass off when I walked past it, and I just thought, well. It's my kind of car."

"Huge backseat," Stan said, peering into it.

"That's not why I bought it," Kyle said, giving Stan a mitten-cushioned thump on the ass. He had thought about sex in the backseat, certainly, but he liked the car for other reasons. It made him feel grown-up and kind of stately, even with the peeling cranberry paint job.

On the drive home, Kyle was in the kind of truly good mood that still felt a bit alien when he paused to acknowledge it, looking forward to the evening at home. He was proud to be driving Stan around himself, since he still couldn't manage the walk from the shelter to the house. Stan did jumping jacks in the bedroom sometimes, mostly to impress or entertain Kyle, but his stamina still hadn't fully returned.

"Who's that?" Stan asked as they came close to the house, and Kyle craned his neck to see another new car parked in the driveway.

Only it wasn't new at all: it was Gerald's old car, the one Kyle had given to Kenny.

"Shit," Kyle said, and the v-chip took him off guard. Stan reached over to steady the wheel.

"He's back?" Stan said, quietly. "Kenny?"

"Looks that way," Kyle said. He didn't want to discuss it further until he'd heard whether or not Kenny had come back alone. Stan went silent, too, and they both jogged for the front door after Kyle parked the car.

They didn't have to wait long to learn the circumstances of Kenny's return: Ike was there in the front room, near the fire, looking skinny and haggard, his hair hanging in his eyes. Only when Kyle ran toward him did he notice Karen stretched out on the couch, her eyes closed as Sharon knelt beside her, reading a thermometer. Karen somehow looked underfed and hugely fat at the same time: she was pregnant, Kyle realized, observing this from over his brother's shoulder as they hugged each other tightly.

"Ike," Kyle said, wanting to cry but too stunned to even begin to deal with his emotions. He pulled back to stare into his brother's face, then turned to look at Karen. "What-?"

"A hundred and two," Sharon said. "We should get you to the hospital, sweetheart," she said, laying a hand on Karen's wrist. Karen opened her eyes but seemed as if she wasn't seeing anything, her lashes glued together at the corners with some gummy substance.

"We don't have any money," Ike said. His voice was different, deeper, or maybe just congested, and he coughed hoarsely after he spoke.

"I've got money," Kyle said, grabbing Ike's shoulder. "Ike, Jesus, where - what. Come here." Kyle hugged him again, feeling how bony he was this time. "Where were you?" he asked as Sharon and Stan helped Karen up from the couch.

"Denver," Kenny said, entering from the kitchen. He was carrying a thermos, and he brought it to Karen, taking Stan's place at her side. "Part of some radical group, until the group disbanded. I found them this morning."

"We supported Canada," Ike said, speaking bitterly before coughing again. "And that's radical?"

"Oh, forgive me," Kenny said, glaring at him. "I should speak more kindly of the organization that turned my pregnant teenage sister out on her ass once they got the outcome they wanted."

"Let's all calm down," Sharon said. "Karen needs medical attention, and Ike - I think you do, too, honey, c'mon."

"I can't," Ike said. "I'm dead."

"Seems like you're not," Sharon said, looking to Kyle.

"We lied," Kyle said.

"I knew he was alive," Stan said. "Mom - I should have told you."

"It hardly matters now!" Sharon said. "Kids, come on, let's get in the car. Kyle, you and Kenny come along. Stan, stay here and start on dinner. Jimbo and Ned are working late."

"It's the first night of Hanukkah," Kyle said, not sure why he was speaking or what he'd meant to convey by announcing this. No one responded except Stan, who came forward to kiss him.

"It's a miracle," Stan said, squeezing Kyle's shoulders.

"Yeah," Kyle said, though it felt more like a blindside.

They took Kyle's new car, and Ike rode up front with him, Sharon and Kenny in the back with Karen, who was alarmingly silent. Kyle noticed as they pulled out that the Volvo looked like shit.

"How long has she been sick?" Sharon asked.

"She was sick a month ago," Ike said. "But she got better. Then I got sick, and - she's been bad for a couple of weeks."

"What the hell were you doing staying in the city?" Kenny asked, smacking Ike in the back of the head in a way that made Kyle tense up with the need to defend him. "Huh? Answer me!"

"I didn't know how to get home!" Ike said. He was tearing up. Kyle reached over to touch his knee. His pants, shirt, jacket - everything about him was filthy, and Kyle could smell the stink of his body odor more distinctly now that he was closed into the car with it.

"Why didn't you write to me?" Kenny asked Karen, his voice softening.

"You were in the war," Karen said. She seemed delirious, not quite focusing on Kenny's face when she spoke to him. "You were - fighting us, fighting Canada. You left me and mom to fight for the enemy."

"The enemy?" Kenny said. His eyes were red-rimmed; he didn't look very clean himself. "America was the enemy?"

"Look what they did!" Ike said. "And how were we supposed to mail a letter? We didn't have money for a fucking stamp. We were stealing food just to get by after the Underground broke up."

"The Underground?" Kyle said.

"The group we were staying with. We supported Canada, and we kept each other safe, waiting out the Canadian victory. For a while, you know, it was great. They took care of us, treated us like people, I got to be _alive_. We were supposed to go north with them after the war ended and Canada won, but I didn't have papers. They said they'd come back for us after they'd spoken to the border patrol about granting me amnesty - we were waiting."

"Waiting," Kenny said, and he scoffed. "You're lucky I found you."

"You were in Denver the whole time?" Kyle asked, looking at Kenny in the rear view. He was unshaven, and looked even more feral than he had when Kyle spotted him at the edge of the woods that day.

"I was all over the place," Kenny said. "But the only real leads I had were in the city. I found them squatting in an abandoned building on the outskirts, halfway to Thornton. Someone told me a bunch of teenagers were living there, some of them really young. I hoped it wasn't you," Kenny said, touching Karen's greasy hair. "Kid, I - I wanted to find you someplace safe."

"You left us," Karen said, but she crumbled against Kenny's chest when he put his arms around her. He whispered that he was sorry, and Kyle tried to tune it out, feeling as if he was intruding. He squeezed Ike's knee.

"God, I'm so glad you're alright," Kyle said. "You've probably got that flu that was a big problem a couple of months ago, but they have medicine for it - you guys are going to be fine."

"Karen's pregnant," Ike said, his voice thick with the tears he was holding back, rough from his cough.

"I know," Kyle said. "It's. It'll be okay."

At the hospital, Kyle was able to get Ike and Karen admitted quickly, and if the admitting nurse was stunned to hear the name Ike Broflovski, she didn't show it. Kenny went back with Karen during her examination, and Kyle stayed with Ike, unwilling to leave his side. It felt better than Kyle had anticipated, back when he'd allowed himself to anticipate it: he wasn't alone with the Broflovski legacy anymore. He had his brother back, and he was going to take care of Ike now, the way he'd always wished he could when Ike was locked up in the attic.

"I'm sorry I ran away," Ike said while they waited for the doctor. Ike was sitting on the examining table, hygienic paper crinkling under him as he shifted nervously.

"It's okay," Kyle said. "I mean, it's not, but I understand."

"I didn't think she could get pregnant," Ike said, meeting Kyle's eyes shyly, as if he expected to be punished. "She barely even got her period, we were eating so little."

"Dammit, Ike," Kyle said. "You look - your cheekbones are about to slice through your skin. You couldn't find a way home, in all that time?"

"I didn't want to go back to the attic!" Ike said. "I wanted to go to Canada, to get us a real life there and write to you and dad after I had my own place, and my baby, my wife - I wanted to show you that I could do all that without you protecting me, locking me up." His voice trailed off as he spoke, and he looked down into his lap. "I know it sounds stupid, now."

"It doesn't," Kyle said. "Not - purely, anyway. Oh, God, I have to call Dad. You have to talk to him, as soon as we're done here."

"Where is he?" Ike asked.

"New York. He left after the war ended."

"Oh." Ike looked down at his lap again. "He just left? He left you alone?"

"No," Kyle said. "I'm - I live with the Marshes now. We sold the old house." He decided not to mention who had bought it just yet. "I have money, from that - I'll share it with you." Kyle felt his hopes of going to college shrink by half, contracting into a small, sharp thing at the pit of his stomach, and then to an even smaller, sharper one when he considered the baby and who would provide for it.

The doctors that examined Karen and Ike determined that they both had a bad strain of the flu that had all sorts of anti-Canadian nicknames. Occupation Sickness and Canadian Fever were the most common, though most rational people didn't believe that the flu was part of a conspiracy to weaken the population. Ike was treated and given a prognosis of full recovery, but Karen's situation was worse, her immune system compromised by the pregnancy. Kyle didn't know all the details, and he kept Ike clear of Kenny for as long as he could, fearing a physical confrontation. They were able to get Gerald on the phone, and Kyle could hear him weeping along with Ike and promising to come home soon. Kyle spoke to him briefly and wished him a happy Hanukkah.

"What?" Gerald said, still sniffling. "Oh, right. Yes, that's amazing, that's incredible. You boys are together on the first night-" He broke down again, and Kyle passed the phone back to Ike.

Kyle went home with Sharon around nine o'clock, leaving Ike and Kenny at the hospital with Karen, who would have to be closely monitored until she gave birth. She was over eight months along. In less than a month, Kyle would have a niece or a nephew. Ike would be a father at fifteen.

"Are you alright?" Sharon asked as they drove home through a light snow fall, passing a few sparse displays of Christmas lights.

"I guess," Kyle said. "I feel like I'm dreaming."

"He was alive all that time," Sharon said. She sighed. "I guess some part of me must have known. Sheila held it together a little too well after his 'death.' She never would have been that coherent if she'd really lost one of you boys."

"Yeah," Kyle said, trying to remember his mother's behavior around the time of Ike's funeral. She'd been humiliated, he remembered, by the drowning story. It made her seem like a neglectful mother, she feared, and Kyle had been angry with her for the lie. The story was that he had been watching Ike when it happened. Kyle wouldn't have let Ike come to harm, even at eight years old, but now he had, and what was left of Ike's life would never be what it could have been if Kyle had just made sure that he stayed put in the attic until the end of the war.

"Honey?" Sharon said, recapturing his attention.

"I'm alright," Kyle said. "I'm just - hungry."

Stan had made butter noodles and salisbury steak with some leftover gravy from one of Ned's more nuanced meals. Sharon took her plate into the den, where Jimbo and Ned were sitting by the fire. Tweek had stayed with Craig every night that week, and the few possessions he had were slowly migrating to Craig's house.

"I feel like I should go back to the hospital," Kyle said as Stan watched him eat. He was sitting close, rubbing the back of Kyle's neck.

"Kenny is there," Stan said. "He'll look after them overnight."

"Ike could come home, but he won't leave Karen," Kyle said. He shook his head, staring at his plate. "My dad's coming back, but it will take him a while to get here. Ike wouldn't let me tell him about the baby. He wants to tell him in person."

"I guess that makes sense," Stan said, looking queasy. "Will they go to live with your dad in New York?"

"I don't know. It's not like he's got his own place. He's staying with my aunt, and she's got two kids who still live with her. I don't know if they're going to extend their hospitality to a couple of extra teenagers and a squalling infant."

"I just hope Karen's okay," Stan said. "She looked kinda rough."

"Yeah. Weird to see Kenny again, too. I think he wants to kill my brother."

"We won't let him," Stan said, his fingers sliding up into Kyle's hair.

"This is good," Kyle said, though everything but the gravy was bland and needed salt. "Thanks for cooking."

"I did my best," Stan said, and Kyle turned to kiss him, suddenly desperate to feel the heat of Stan's mouth against his, and the comfort of the way the Stan knew to kiss him when he was upset: softly but deeply, with both hands on Kyle's cheeks. Stan would keep him sane through this, whatever this turned out to be.

Kyle went out to the car after dinner to fetch the candles he'd left on the backseat. He stood in the driveway for a while, watching the snow as it began to come down harder. Across the street, the neighbors had put out a glowing Christmas star on their front door. In recent years, nobody had dared to decorate so garishly. The use of power to fuel the glittering lights would have been communally protested during the war. Kyle watched the star as it blinked its happy message through the night: it was an announcement that something good was coming, that it was only a matter of time. Christmas, he assumed, though the star itself was nondenominational. He went inside to light his menorah.

By the fourth night of Hanukkah, Karen's condition had worsened, and Kyle again felt like he spent most of his life at the hospital. Ike was determined to stay at her side while Kenny frantically tried to locate their mother, who had left town a few months after Karen ran away with Ike. Kenny was convinced that Carol must have left word with someone about where she was headed, but Kyle wasn't so sure, and wasn't too surprised that she seemed to have simply disappeared. He did what he could for Ike and poor Karen, but during his shifts he was sometimes privy to the muttered conversations of her doctors, and they didn't seem optimistic about saving the baby.

In the end, it was Karen who couldn't be saved. She went into emergency labor three days before Christmas, while Kyle was working the reception desk in the cardiac department. Ike had finally gone home for sleep for a while and shower, and it was Kenny who told Kyle what had happened.

"My sister is dead," Kenny said, pale-faced and standing in front of Kyle's desk, his eyes hollow and unfocused.

"No, she's not," Kyle said, automatically, feeling as if someone would have informed him. "Kenny, she's-"

"The baby's okay so far," Kenny said. "Six pounds and something ounces. I stopped listening at that part. You should tell your brother."

Kenny turned and started to walk away. Kyle called out to him, but he wouldn't respond, and Kyle was too overwhelmed with concern for Ike to chase him down. He felt like Kenny had to be wrong, but when he took a break from the desk to check on Karen, she was no longer in her room. Kyle tried to concentrate on the explanation her nurse was giving him, something about lung failure and blood loss during delivery. The nurse's words slipped across Kyle mind nonsensically, and he could only concentrate on one thing.

"Where's the baby?" he asked.

Baby Boy McCormick was in the nursery, sucking on a pacifier. He had a little tuft of black hair: Ike's hair. Kyle would have to tell Ike about Karen. He'd spent the past week watching Ike sit at her bedside and kiss her frail hand, whispering to her and spoon feeding her when she was too drained to lift her arms. Ike had been the only one who could make Karen smile up from her hospital bed, and whenever she'd touched her swollen belly Ike had laid his hand over hers. Now Kyle had to explain that the girl Ike loved, the one person who he'd ever had anything like a life with, was gone. Kyle couldn't do that yet, or maybe ever. He had to talk to Stan.

"Stotch Animal Welfare Center," Stan said when he answered at the shelter. "How can I help you?" he asked. Kyle could only breathe sharply into the receiver: once, twice. "Hello?"

"Stan," Kyle said.

"Dude! What's wrong?"

"It's - she died, Stan. Karen died."

"Oh, Jesus, no, that's - I'm so sorry, that's - that poor little girl, God. How's Kenny? Jesus, how's Ike?"

"Ike doesn't know. I have to tell him. Kenny walked away."

"Kyle, you sound - you need to clock out, okay, and I'll close up here and come to the hospital. I'll - do you want me to pick up Ike on the way?"

"Then you'd have to tell him," Kyle said. His lungs felt pinched, and he wondered how painful it had been for Karen, and if she'd known that she was dying, leaving her baby behind.

"Do you want me to tell him?" Stan asked after a heavy pause.

"I - I can't ask you to do that, he's my brother-"

"I can't bring him there and not tell him. Kyle, let me do this for you. You don't sound okay."

"The baby, Stan. There's this baby."

"It - she didn't lose it?"

"No, it's there, here, in the nursery, and I don't know what to do, they were asking me if I wanted to go in and, and visit with it, I don't know what to do-"

"It's okay, Kyle. I mean - just, calm down. I'm coming, okay? I'm coming, and I'll bring Ike. I'll tell Ike, if that's okay with you."

It wasn't okay with Kyle, but the idea of having to tell Ike himself, over the phone, was less okay. He went into the men's locker room after he hung up with Stan and splashed cold water on his face, but he still felt overheated with panic and unable to get his mind to focus completely on what had happened. He went into an empty shower stall and pulled the curtain shut, sinking down against the wall. He sat there for a long time.

By the time he emerged night had fallen, and Kyle's sense of overwhelmed confusion persisted. His ability to concentrate on what was happening came and went: Stan was there, holding him, Ike was on the floor, sobbing, the baby was elsewhere, alone. Kenny was nowhere to be found, as if he had disappeared along with Karen, along with his mother, the whole McCormick family deleted in one day. Stan made Kyle eat something, a snack bar sandwich with chewy bread that was tasteless in his mouth. When he was finished, the sandwich sitting heavy on his stomach, Kyle returned to the floor and held Ike. They were in the waiting room near the nursery. Kyle wasn't sure how long they had been there or what time it was. Sharon had appeared at some point.

"Patrick," Ike said thickly, and it was either the first word he'd spoken in Kyle's presence or the first time Kyle had been able to pay adequate attention to what Ike was trying to say through his grief. Ike's head was in Kyle's lap, his forehead pressed to Kyle's thigh. He was shaky and hot across the back of his neck, every breath heaving out of him painfully. "She wanted to call him Patrick. If it was a boy."

"It is a boy," Sharon said, sinking down to touch Ike's back. "You have a son, Ike. Karen would want you to be comforted by that. Unless." She glanced up at Kyle uncertainly. "Honey, we could talk about adoption, if you think-"

"No," Ike said. He sat up and turned his wrecked face to Kyle's. Ike had the darkest eyes, a deep brown that bled into his pupils. Kyle hadn't seen the baby's eyes; Karen's had been very light blue. "He's a Broflovski," Ike said. "Patrick, he's one of us. Right?"

He was asking for Kyle's permission to keep his baby. It wasn't as if Ike could support anyone on his own, and even if he had money, he wouldn't know what to do with an infant, or with himself now that Karen was gone. Kyle nodded and pulled Ike close again, letting Ike's head rest on his shoulder.

"Of course," Kyle said. "He's our family. We'll take care of him."

By the time Gerald was able to get back to South Park, Karen had been in the ground for two weeks and Patrick had been home with the Marsh family for just as long. Kyle tried to get Ike to go with him to the train station to pick up their father, but Ike hadn't been leaving Randy's office much at all, and he refused. He'd appropriated the cot that Tweek had once slept on, without even allowing Sharon to change the sheets. She'd been doing most of the work with the baby, but she couldn't keep passing on nursing shifts without risking the loss of her job, and soon someone else would have to take over with Patrick during the day. Ike was not a likely candidate, and Kenny had shown up for Karen's funeral but hadn't been reliably present since then.

"So, are you back?" Kyle asked once Gerald was in the passenger seat of his car, a small travel bag resting in his lap.

"What do you mean?" Gerald asked. He looked old; Kyle somehow hadn't realized how gray Gerald's hair had gotten in the past years.

"I mean, are you going to stay?" Kyle asked.

"Well." Gerald fidgeted. "I'd rather Ike came back with me to New York. I've gotten a position at a firm there, and it - it hurts me to be back here, Kyle. I'm on medication for this trip."

"Huh? Like - what?"

"Depression medication, and something for anxiety." Gerald glanced at Kyle, who felt badly about the look on his face when he realized his father was embarrassed to admit this. "I've been okay without the pills since I left, but hearing about this, about your brother - his loss, well. It's hard for me to be here, but I'll be glad to leave with Ike. He'll recover from this, and he'll enjoy New York-"

"Dad, he has a kid," Kyle said, furious with his father for not knowing this, though it wasn't his fault.

"Pardon me?"

"Ike got Karen pregnant. She had the baby before she died. Patrick Broflovski. Your grandson."

Kyle gave Gerald an apologetic look when he heard how harsh he sounded. He hadn't slept much recently. The baby cried all night long, and Kyle could hear it from the crib in Sharon's room where Patrick stayed at night. Even when he couldn't hear it, he was straining to, always on edge.

"We didn't want to tell you over the phone," Kyle said when Gerald stared at him, open-mouthed.

At the house, Ike was still closed up in Randy's old office, which had become like the attic once was, only Ike had shut himself away from the world voluntarily this time. Kyle lingered in the doorway while Gerald tried to convince Ike to take some of his depression meds. Ike refused, and he also refused to get up and go into Sharon's room when Gerald was ready to meet Patrick. Kyle went with him instead, and held the baby while his father stood staring, seemingly dumbstruck.

"I can't believe this has happened," Gerald said after almost a minute had passed, Patrick making soft noises in Kyle's arms, only partly awake.

"It's really not that crazy when you think about it," Kyle said. "They were teenagers, and no one was giving them the attention they wanted. So they found each other, and, you know. After sex comes baby."

"I don't just mean the baby," Gerald said. He sounded close to tears, and he reached out to stroke Patrick's thin black hair with his fingertips. "I mean all of it, Kyle. Your mother, the war. Everything."

"I know," Kyle said. The progress of his life had been increasingly difficult to parse, to the point that he woke up every morning and made a catalog of all that had happened, to make sure that it was still real in the light of day. The most important component of his cataloging was the fact that Stan was always beside him when he woke. Karen's death and the arrival of Patrick in the household had effectively killed Kyle's libido for the time being, and at the end of the day he just wanted to be held. Stan knew this instinctively; Kyle didn't have to ask.

Dinner with Gerald was tense, because Ike refused to come down. Kyle had been bringing him meals in his room, and he had to persistently prod Ike into eating anything at all. Sharon gave Patrick his bottle at the table, and Kyle caught his father staring at the baby as if trying to make sense of some mystical creature.

"Ike says he won't come to New York with me," Gerald said when everyone else had cleared out of the kitchen after the meal, giving them privacy.

"Ike doesn't do much of anything," Kyle said. "He's still in shock. She was, you know. His first love, not to mention the mother of his child."

"This was - the girl who cleaned our house, right?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Kenny's sister."

"Uh-huh. We don't know where Kenny is. Jimbo saw him walking along the side of the road a few days ago, but he wouldn't accept a ride. He's closing us out just like Ike."

"It happens," Gerald said, looking down into his empty coffee cup. "When your mother died - ah."

"It's fine," Kyle said. He was exhausted, his patience for everyone wearing thin. "I mean, look. Ike will come around eventually. If you want to go back to New York, I understand. I can send him after you when he's recovered from this."

"It's not that I _want_ to go back to New York, Kyle. Well, I suppose that's not true, I do. But I need to, also. I can't be here, and I don't think Ike should be either. But. That baby."

"Patrick." Kyle hadn't bonded much with his nephew in the past few weeks, but he did give Patrick his bottle and change his diapers when it was his turn, and though it was strange to consider, he was a little person, not just 'that baby.'

"I just can't see me and Ike in New York with a baby," Gerald said. "But, God, I hate to leave this on Sharon. And you."

Kyle shrugged. This was what he'd expected from his father, but it still hurt. It was an expression he'd heard once, something Jimbo had said about being 'left holding the baby.'

"I'm going to bed," Kyle said, standing to bring his coffee cup to the sink. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Everything I need?"

"In the living room, for sleeping. Sharon left blankets and a pillow-"

"Oh, yes, that's fine." Gerald stood and looked at Kyle in a distantly sympathetic way, and Kyle held his father's gaze just to prove he could handle how sad his eyes were. "And Stan's doing well?" Gerald said, as if he wanted to end this conversation on a good note.

"Yeah," Kyle said. "He's - everything I need, he's so good. He keeps me sane."

"He's a good boy," Gerald said, his voice tightening. Kyle was glad when he left the kitchen. He rinsed out his father's coffee cup and headed into the bedroom, where Stan was waiting, tending the fire.

"Stay right there," Kyle said when Stan started to rise. Kyle didn't even need the blankets they usually piled near the hearth: he fell onto Stan with a long sigh, pressing him down to the floor with kisses. It didn't take Stan long to figure out what Kyle needed, and he rolled Kyle onto his back, kissing his neck, sucking at his skin. Kyle moaned, and didn't care who outside the room might hear.

They'd never had sex on the floor, without the cushion of makeshift bedding, and Kyle liked it. He needed it, raw and soft at the same time, gasping against Stan's mouth while he snapped his hips and Kyle clenched around his cock. Stan came first, and Kyle held his ass in place with one hand, jerking himself to completion with the other.

"God," Stan said, still inside Kyle, licking his neck. "I've missed you."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, I get it. There's a lot going on." Stan slid out and put one arm under Kyle's shoulders, the other under his knees.

"Oh – Stan, don't," Kyle said when he realized what was happening.

"Shh, it's fine, I can do it."

He lifted Kyle off the floor and carried him to bed. It was only a few steps from the fireplace, but it seemed like a Herculean task to Kyle, and he knew how proud Stan was to do this for him: he felt it. They kissed on top of the blankets until Kyle started crying and couldn't stop, everything he'd held back since Ike's return pouring out of him and onto Stan's lips and cheeks. Stan stayed close, kissing Kyle's face and whispering that it was okay. Kyle fell asleep in Stan's arms when he felt as if he had nothing left in him that needed to come out, exhausted. The last thing he knew was that Stan was drawing the blankets up over them, tucking him in.

In the morning Kyle woke with a single, persisting thought in his head, and he sat up in bed until Stan noticed and sat up beside him.

"We forgot to celebrate the New Year," Kyle said.

"We had champagne," Stan said, rubbing his back.

"We did?" Kyle didn't remember that. He must have been drunk. All morning he'd been fretting about what a bad omen it was not to mark a new year.

"Yeah, just me and you, in here. Seemed kind of soon after the funeral to do anything more than that."

This statement haunted Kyle in the weeks to come: everything seemed too soon after the funeral, until Karen's death became a symbol for all the people he'd lost, including the ones who were still technically alive. Gerald returned to New York at the start of February, and Ike would not go with him. He said he wanted to stay in South Park for Patrick, though he rarely consented to even hold the baby, too broken up by the fact that Patrick would peer up at him with Karen's pale blue eyes. Kyle assumed this would fade: lots of babies started out with blue eyes and lost them as they grew older. Sharon went back to working six shifts a week, the household economy crippled enough by the price of formula and diapers. Stan spent the most time with Patrick while Kyle tried to get as many shifts as possible at Hell's Pass. He grew to like being out of the house, away from the baby and from the specter of his brother that haunted Randy's old office.

On Valentine's Day, Sharon had a ten hour shift and Kyle begged to have the day off, hoping to do something to mark the occasion with Stan. His request was granted, but he spent most of the day trying to quiet Patrick, who had a cold and was crying so much that his little voice was ragged. When he finally wore himself out it was almost four o'clock in the afternoon, and he was still bundled into Kyle's arms, his cheeks pink under his drying tears. Kyle was in an arm chair in the den, watching Stan chop firewood out in the yard. It was the first time he'd attempted it, and Kyle kept expecting him to tire, but Stan kept collecting more logs after Kyle was sure that he'd had enough. By the time Stan came in he was red-faced and short of breath, and Kyle really needed to do something with the sleeping baby, because he was starting to get hard from the smell of Stan's sweat.

"Sweet boy," Stan murmured, bending down to kiss Patrick's forehead. Kyle shushed him and stood.

"I'm gonna put him in the crib," Kyle whispered. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck."

"You sure chopped some wood," Kyle said, backing away. Stan beamed at him and shrugged off his coat, letting it drop to the floor.

Kyle was able to successfully transition Patrick to his crib without waking him, which almost never happened. On the way back to the stairs he stopped in front of what had become Ike's room to listen. There was no sound, which wasn't surprising. Ike slept for most of the day and stayed up at night, puttering around the second floor like a mouse. He'd reverted to the only life he knew: hiding during the day and sneaking about at night.

Downstairs, Stan was sitting on the hearth in the den, drinking a beer. It was ridiculous: he needed water, or at least some juice, if they had any, which they probably didn't. Kyle was impressed by the fact that Stan was chugging a beer anyway, the sleeves on his flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, his face still flushed from the work. He looked like he would be hot to the touch, and he was when Kyle dropped into his lap.

"Fuck me right here," Kyle said when Stan's teeth pressed into the soft flesh on his neck. He expected Stan to laugh and tell him that was crazy, but he cradled Kyle's back as he pressed him to the floor, and Kyle groaned when Stan worked the front of his pants open before tearing his own zipper down.

"Your chip didn't go off," Stan said, his face hovering over Kyle's, his lips just barely evading Kyle's attempts to kiss them.

"Huh?"

"You said – you cursed, said you wanted me to eff you, only. You said the real word, and your chip didn't – did it?"

"I guess not," Kyle said, and he captured Stan's bottom lip between his teeth, drawing Stan down to him. "I guess it's not a bad word anymore, to me."

It was insane to have sex there on the floor, when Jimbo and Ned might have walked in at any moment, never mind Ike, but they did it anyway, and Kyle cried out brokenly when he came, feeling as if he owned the whole house, the whole town, as if he had a place in the world that no one could intrude on or take away from him. Stan carried him to their room afterward, despite Kyle's protests that he must have been too tired to do so. Kyle knew by then that Stan could carry him, and he wanted him to.

He started to feel comfortable at last, proud of himself for outsmarting his v-chip the way Bebe had, without even meaning to. He cursed more often, in the shameless way he had as a kid, and hoped Stan would follow his lead, but Stan grew more cautious in the presence of Kyle's irreverence, avoiding even 'damn' and 'hell.' Stan started working more seriously on the hothouse infrastructure and passed the animal shelter duties on to Tweek, who was glad to have a job, though this one didn't pay. Tweek didn't need money: he was living with Craig, who had mountains of cash and was making more with his specialty store. Kyle grew tired of his job at Hell's Pass and cut down on his shifts until he only had two a week, increasingly annoyed by his co-workers and unable to keep up with the constant policy changes. He preferred to stay in and take care of Patrick, who was less fussy and more cognizant, finally capable of staring up at Kyle as if he knew him rather than just howling at him like he was an infuriatingly inadequate source of comfort. His eyes had turned dark brown, like Ike's.

Ike wasn't as willing to recover from Karen's death as Kyle had hoped he would be, and Kyle tried to be patient, imagining what it would have been like to lose Stan at that age. At the end of April he quit Hell's Pass altogether, with Stan's blessing. Stan and Token had projected big gains for their first marijuana crop, the hothouse already halfway constructed, and Kyle had a full time job at home, looking after Patrick and Ike. Sharon had a 'friend' in North Park who she stayed with some nights, and Kyle was glad to give her a break, hoping her friend was a charming man. She deserved something nice for herself, away from the demands of the household. She still spent most nights at the house, and one afternoon in spring Kyle woke to the sound of her panicked voice in his bedroom.

"Oh, God, okay," Sharon was saying, standing over his bed. Kyle squinted up at her, confused and annoyed. Patrick was asleep under his arm, whining a little. He settled down when Kyle stroked his hair. "I didn't know where he was," Sharon said. Something about the way she was looking at Kyle made him scoff.

"Um, well, he's here," Kyle said. "He's fine."

"I know." Sharon looked around the room as if she expected to find something dangerous that the baby might have hurt himself with. "Just. Kyle, I didn't know you had him."

"So?" Kyle said. He didn't want to be pissed off at her, but he was, increasingly. "I can – I mean, I don't see what the big deal is. He's my baby."

Sharon stared at him, and only when he saw the look in her eyes did Kyle hear what he'd said.

"I mean," Kyle said, forcing a laugh. Why had he said that? She'd misunderstood him, anyway. "I mean, he's. My relative, so. It's okay if I have him. So."

"I know," Sharon said, too hurriedly. "Is Stan – is he working?"

"He's at the farm with Jimbo and Token." Kyle hugged his arm around Patrick more firmly. "Patty's going to take his nap here," he said. "With me."

"Alright," Sharon said, but Kyle could see that she wanted to take his baby – Ike's baby – away from him. He watched her go, and stared at the door after she had, waiting, ready to be challenged again.

Things were fine – fine, he told himself – but in the background, in a way that he couldn't put his finger on, something was off. Stan kept accusing him of saying weird things when Kyle knew he hadn't – he hadn't asked for the pineapple, he'd asked for the book, and it was Stan who imagined that Kyle mixed up Christophe's name for Ned's, Stan who had accidentally replaced the tube of toothpaste with the cream they used for lube. Kyle was worried about Stan. He seemed different, suspicious and confused, and Kyle kept meaning to talk to Wendy about it, because she would know what to do, but Wendy was gone – she was somewhere else, but not dead. Just somewhere else, in another town. Kyle couldn't recall where exactly, and he didn't want to ask, because everyone was looking at him like he didn't know anything, lately.

Except for Patrick, who was Kyle's new favorite person. Kyle was giddy with the growing knowledge that Patrick was _his_ , that he had made this baby somehow, in a way that he still couldn't explain – but that didn't matter, because Patrick was real and warm, and he needed Kyle more than anyone ever had. Everyone else in the household was making less and less sense, but Patrick always looked up at Kyle with complete acceptance, his brown eyes as bright and intelligent as Kyle's brother's had once been. He thought he saw Ike sometimes, around the house and in the backyard, but that was just wishful thinking. Ike had been dead since Kyle was eight years old.

"Dude," Stan said, and Kyle felt like he was waking from a dream. The fireplace was cold, but the room was warm. It was spring, the snow had melted, and suddenly Kyle knew what Stan was about to say. "Our – it's May, you know, um. It'll be your birthday in a few weeks."

"Our wedding," Kyle said, and he wasn't sure why he felt sad when Stan's eyes filled with tears. Stan was just happy. Kyle was, too, though he didn't feel like crying.

"I want you to go to a doctor," Stan said. He wiped at his cheeks with both hands. "So we can. So we can see – before we – so we can—"

"A doctor? What for?" Kyle sat up in bed. He wasn't sure why he was in bed, or what time it was, or why these things might matter. "Where's Patrick? Is the baby okay?"

"Yeah – Kyle, he's fine. I'm – would you listen to me for a sec?"

Kyle had trouble with listening. He knew this, distantly, but when he could concentrate enough to consider it, he felt he was in the right. There wasn't much worth listening to, and he didn't need as much instruction as people seemed to think he did.

The weather got warmer, and Patrick got bigger. Kyle clung to him, because the baby's progress toward personhood seemed to be the only thing that made sense anymore. Kyle kept thinking he saw his dead brother – lurking the kitchen at dawn, crying in the bathtub, even reaching for the baby – and he saw Stan, too, though he knew Stan was at war. He dug through his notebooks until he found the place where he'd stashed Stan's letters, and they calmed his pounding heart as he paged through them. The letters made sense: Kyle remembered the letters, and if he imagined Stan in his bed at times, that was okay, because the letters seemed to promise that Stan would be there someday, for real.

Finally, on a mild weekend morning that might have been his birthday, Kyle heard the front door open and just knew. Stan was home. He bolted upright in bed and pressed his fists over his mouth, waiting. He had waited long enough, and had read the letters so many times. He could see, now, that Stan was telling him that he loved him in every letter, that Stan would belong to him if he ever made it home from the war. And now he had.

Stan came into Kyle's room – was this his room? It was some very familiar room, the room where Kyle had been sleeping. Kyle ran to him. He wasn't afraid anymore. He threw his arms around Stan's neck and wept, thought it didn't feel like crying, not really. He was laughing, too, not sad.

"You're home," Kyle said, choking out the words. Stan felt stronger than he had when he'd left, and he seemed to be in shock, his arms at his sides. "You're home," Kyle said again, wanting Stan to accept it. Of course it would take him a moment. "How was your trip? Where's your uniform? Did you change on the train?"

"Kyle," Stan said. He sounded frightened, and that made sense. After what Stan had been through, normalcy would be hard to readopt. Kyle held him tighter and kissed his neck in friendly pecks. There would be time to talk about the letters and what they meant. Kyle would keep his kisses chaste until then.

"You're home," Kyle said again, leaning back to beam at Stan. "I can't believe it. You're really here." This was just how he'd always imagined it: Stan walking through the door, sturdy in his arms, shaken by what he'd seen but not permanently damaged by the war. Kyle would heal whatever small things had been hurt.

"Kyle," Stan said again, and his shell-shocked expression crumbled. He shook with sobs, his head dropping to Kyle's shoulder and his arms going tight around him, as if he was scared that Kyle would slip away. Kyle kissed Stan's ear, surprised by how torn up he was, though he supposed he shouldn't be. His poor Stan had just come back from war, had seen God knew what.

"It's alright," Kyle said, petting Stan's hair. A baby was crying somewhere – whose baby? Theirs, right, and Kyle would think that through later. He closed his eyes and pressed his face to Stan's wet cheek. "Everything's alright now," he said, though a nagging fear in the pit of his stomach kept trying to convince him that it wasn't. To hell with that thing, a holdover from his paranoid childhood: Kyle knew better now.


	11. Epilogue

Stan spends most of his twenty-sixth birthday at work, but he doesn't mind. He likes his job, especially during the season when he gets to be outside instead of toiling in the greenhouses, and the weather is beautiful. He eats his lunch in the field that adjoins their property, propping his aching back against a tree. None of the other field hands try to join him, which makes him feel guilty but glad. He's developed a reputation as a loner, the quiet guy, and he makes them nervous, anyway, because Token treats him like he co-owns the farm. Stan didn't invest anything in it but sweat, and he appreciates the respect but is also glad that he doesn't have to deal with the financial side of the business. Despite the aching back, he prefers to do physical labor.

The days have shortened along with the cooling temperature, and he typically stays at work until sundown, but he leaves around four o'clock on account of his birthday. He's not sure what to expect at the house in terms of a celebration, but it's a feeling he's grown accustomed to. He's never really sure what to expect at the house.

The walk home is peaceful, reliably one of the best parts of his day, at least until the virgin winter snows turn into muddy frozen embankments. He drives the old Volvo sometimes when the weather is bad, but in general he prefers the walk. It's an opportunity to clear his head and shift out of work mode. At home, he's not the quiet guy, and he's never alone.

At the house, he's surprised to see Kenny's truck parked on the street, and he wonders if there is some sort of party developing, though he supposes his mom would have arrived before Kenny. He walks in to the smell of fried donuts, his favorite, which means Kyle must have at least remembered that today is some sort of special occasion. He braces himself before walking into the kitchen, hoping that he's not going to have to endure a 'homecoming' tonight. He's sportingly returned from the war about three hundred times in the past six years, and he'd rather not go through the whole thing again on his birthday, especially since it's been a couple of months since the last time Kyle latched on to that particular delusion.

"Daddy's home!" Patrick says, vaulting out of his chair at the kitchen table. He runs to Stan, who kneels down to scoop him up and gives Kenny a wary glance to gauge Kyle's mood. Kenny gives him a thumbs up. Kyle is at the stove, pulling a greasy donut from the pan with tongs. He turns to smile at Stan.

"Happy birthday," Kyle says, and Stan hurries over to give him a kiss, carrying Patrick along with him. Stan searches Kyle's face, wondering if this is a rare lucid day, but the leaden awareness that hardens in Kyle's eyes when he remembers everything isn't there.

"Poppy's making donuts for you," Patrick explains when Stan sets him down. "Instead of a cake."

"I like donuts better," Stan says, and he kisses Kyle's cheek again. He smells good, like flour and cinnamon. "Thanks, dude," Stan says softly, wishing he could communicate, in a way that Kyle would fully understand, how much it means to be congratulated for his birthday and not on returning home from a war that ended seven years ago.

"Well, I feel terrible," Kyle says, and he drops the next donut into the oil. "I should have done a real party for you, but it's just been the longest week, you know, that man has been under my feet every five minutes."

"That man?" Stan says, glancing at Kenny. He's drinking a beer, making himself comfortable in their house. He likes being around Patrick.

"Ike," Kenny explains.

"I just don't know what they think I'm going to do," Kyle says. "I mean, I don't even know where my mother is, she doesn't exactly include me in whatever she's planning, and if they think installing some Canadian in my house is a matter of national security, well, it's just - it's exhausting, having him here, and he's _drunk_ half the time. I don't even want to know what they pay him to spy on me. I could build a nuclear weapon in the backyard and I doubt he'd notice."

"Right," Stan says, crestfallen. He touches Kyle's back on the way to the fridge for a beer.

"And if they think it's funny or something that they sent someone with the same name as my dead brother - that's just unbelievable, I mean, what's the point? Sorry." He sighs and turns from the stove. "It's your birthday, let's not talk about anything annoying."

"Where is he, though?" Stan asks, concerned about Kyle's mention of Ike's drinking. Ike has been going through a sober stretch recently, and even picked up a few shifts at the farm over the summer, until he decided that harvesting weed 'wasn't for him.' Stan estimated that Ike had stolen about two hundred bucks worth of product before he quit, but he didn't mention it to Token.

"He's upstairs, I guess," Kyle says, waving his hand in that direction. "If he thinks I'm feeding him again tonight he's got another thing coming. I never agreed to provide my overseer with home cooked meals."

"Let's go check on him," Stan says, picking Patrick up again.

"If you must," Kyle says. "Remind him not to come down here until our company leaves. I've invited a few people over, and it's so embarrassing, having him lurking around."

Stan chooses not to respond to that, mostly because he doesn't know how. Ike is generally the least willing to play along with Kyle's confusion, which the doctors have encouraged them all to do. Stan knows it's hard for Ike to not only watch Kyle take on the responsibility of raising Patrick but to insist that Patrick is the baby that Kyle somehow co-fathered with Stan, and that Ike is just some stranger the Canadian government has assigned to watch over the potentially dangerous son of Sheila Broflovski. Kyle has several different subsets of reality that he shifts between - in some Sheila is dead, and in others she only faked her death or is in hiding, but in all of them he firmly believes that Ike drowned under his watch at three years old. Kyle feels profound guilt about it, and Stan wishes he could explain that he doesn't need to, that Ike is alive if not well, but refuting Kyle's interpretations of the world around him has only ever led to long periods of confused silence that terrify Stan and upset Patrick.

"Can we come in?" Stan asks, already opening the door to what had once been his father's office. There is still a faint scent that Stan associates with Randy in the room, but it's mostly been overtaken by the stench of pot. Ike is in bed, as usual, but he's awake, reading something off the screen of the laptop that he acquired under mysterious circumstances. He's been arrested twice for theft, and the second time had been for stealing a car. If the mayor wasn't a personal friend, Ike would probably still be in jail. "Look who's here," Stan says, since Ike hasn't even looked up. He sets Patrick down and flips on the overhead light switch, annoyed when nothing happens and he sees that Ike has removed the bulb. "Go say hi to your dad," Stan says to Patrick, who is lingering near Stan's legs.

"Hey, buddy," Ike says, still clacking away on the laptop's keys. He sounds sober, at least. "I'm almost done. C'mere."

"What are you working on?" Stan asks as Patrick shyly approaches the bed.

"Nothing." Ike snaps the lid of the laptop shut and pushes it away. He sits up and leans down to give Patrick a hug. Patrick hugs him back with all the enthusiasm as he can muster, which isn't much. Though he pretends to understand, Stan is pretty sure Patrick thinks they're lying to him when they tell him, gently and never in earshot of Kyle, that Ike is his biological father. Patrick is so attached to Kyle that he cried through his first week of kindergarten, wanting to go home to his Poppy. Stan still thinks of the flower when he hears Patrick apply that name to Kyle, whose hair is almost the same shade of the poppies that grow in the foothills.

"Sounds like Kyle was giving you a hard time this morning," Stan says, meaning this as a kind of apology. Ike shrugs and allows Patrick to squirm free.

"Same old shit," Ike says, and Stan winces a little, though he agrees with Ike, fundamentally, that there's no point in sheltering Patrick from curse words. "Tells me to get out of his kitchen, asks me how much longer I'm going to be here spying on him."

"Alright, well. I'll make sure somebody brings you something to eat. I guess he's invited some people over for my birthday."

"It's your birthday?"

"Uh-huh."

"Oh. Well, happy birthday. Have fun celebrating while I'm up here in my Kyle-approved cage."

"Dude, c'mon. You know he's not enjoying this."

"Sure seems like he is, sometimes."

"He's not," Stan says. "Trust me."

Kyle was diagnosed with v-chip poisoning around the time that the first reports about the condition were being published in medical journals. By the end of the year, it was estimated that twenty percent of the kids who'd been given first generation v-chip implants would develop the condition, and doctors scrambled to figure out a safe way to remove the chips from those who weren't yet affected. By the time Stan had his removed, Kyle was having only a few lucid days a month, Craig had developed similar problems with memory loss and confusion, his chip having done its damage before he had it removed, and Clyde Donovan was dead from a v-chip related stroke. Clyde hadn't even shown any symptoms of the poisoning beforehand. Kyle's doctors have assured Stan that it's very unlikely at this point that Kyle will have a stroke or get worse, and charitable foundations have been established to try to find a cure for people like Kyle who are still living with the condition. In the meantime, all they know is that with the currently practiced methods of removal, Kyle would probably die if they took the chip out, and would almost definitely be catatonic without it. It's become too central to his brain function, in ways that Sheila Broflovski and the people who invented the chip never anticipated.

"Poppy's making donuts," Patrick says to Ike, and he wanders back over to Stan. "We'll bring you some, Daddy."

"Yep," Stan says. Though he knows it's absurd, he's always a little hurt when Patrick calls Ike his 'Daddy.' Patrick uses the same word for Stan, and generally has a very flexible conception of what a family is and where he came from. Kyle occasionally puzzles over it himself, but it doesn't seem to trouble him much that he can't remember the particular mechanics of how his genetic material and Stan's combined to create Patrick. He just knows that it did. Even when he thinks that Stan has just come home from the war, he believes in some vague fashion that they made Patrick together when they were teenagers.

Downstairs, Stan recaptures his beer and takes Patrick into the backyard to play catch. Patrick is on the small side, wiry like Ike and petite like Karen, but he's got good hand eye coordination for his age, and Stan is already envisioning him as a football player someday. He hasn't brought this up to Kyle, who would almost certainly hate the thought of his baby playing such a dangerous sport.

Kenny follows them out and watches in silence, sitting on a lawn chair beside Stan. It smells nice outside, like the peak of autumn tinged with the candy-like scent of Kyle's donuts. Stan thinks of trick or treating with Patrick, wondering if Kyle has started on his costume yet. Last year Patrick had wanted to be 'a pretzel,' and Kyle called his bluff, somehow making this happen out of lots of brown felt and cotton stuffing. Kyle had been lucid for almost the entire time he worked on the costume, a rare four day stretch, and Stan has tried to encourage him to take on similar tasks, hoping that it could be a trend, but he never seems to get excited about anything that isn't directly related to Patrick, aside from sex. Kyle wants it nightly, which Stan has come to view as a great blessing. It's kept them close, through all the shifting planes of Kyle's universe. Whatever Kyle is confused about, he's always sure that he wants Stan. It means something, Stan thinks. It means everything, sometimes.

"Is Bebe coming tonight?" Stan asks Kenny when Patrick has tired of the football and plopped into his sandbox to drive some toy trucks around.

"Yep," Kenny says, and he drinks from his beer. Stan waits to hear more, but Kenny never has much to say about Bebe, and she's the same way about him, as if it would be disrespectful to Clyde's memory if they openly acknowledged that they've been sleeping together for the past two years. "I think he invited Christophe and Greg, too," Kenny says.

"Good," Stan says, and he presses his shoulders back, trying to work out a kink in his back. Kyle will rub it for him later, and it's Stan's birthday, so he can request an extra long session. "How's, uh. Work?" Stan asks. He never knows what to say to Kenny, who has always been perfectly comfortable with silence.

"It's okay," Kenny says. He manages the small grocery store that Craig founded years ago.

"Does Craig come by, or - does he pretty much stay out of it?"

"He's around sometimes. He's not as bad as Kyle-" Kenny gives Stan a nervous glance, as if Stan doesn't know what he means. "He gets mixed up over smaller stuff, like. Like what day it is, and what a carrot is called."

"I guess he and Tweek aren't coming tonight?"

"I don't know, you'd have to ask Kyle."

Stan heads inside to do so, asking Kenny to watch Patrick. He's Patrick's most frequent babysitter, but it's rare that they need one, since Kyle isn't fond of leaving Patrick's side. It took three years for Stan to convince Kyle to transition Patrick into sleeping in his own bed upstairs, in Stan's childhood bedroom. Kyle's behavioral therapist had a theory that Patrick is a kind of anchor to reality for Kyle, since he appeared on the scene around the time Kyle's thought processes became jumbled. Patrick hadn't been able to talk at the time, and hadn't needed to understand what Kyle was saying. Even now, Patrick seems content to let Kyle's ramblings gloss over him. Stan doesn't want to think about what it will be like when Patrick is a teenager, how angry he might become, though it's in his nature to be sweet and accepting.

"Can I help?" Stan asks when he finds Kyle at the sink, washing the dishes. There's a pile of fresh donuts on a plate near the stove, but Stan resists the temptation to grab one, sliding his arms around Kyle's waist instead.

"I'm almost done," Kyle says. "And it's your birthday!" He tilts his neck to give Stan better access, and Stan takes the hint, kissing him there and sucking gently at his skin. Kyle sighs and lets his head fall back onto Stan's shoulder. "You should shower before the party," he says.

"Okay," Stan says. "You, too. Kenny can watch Patrick."

"Do I smell like frying grease?"

"A little," Stan says, aroused by this, and he gives Kyle's neck a wide lick. He tastes good, like sugar-laced sweat. Kyle laughs and turns off the water.

"Did you tell that man not to come down during the party?" he asks, shattering Stan's attempt to pretend for a moment that things are normal.

"I did," Stan says. "Yeah."

"I think Patrick is afraid of him."

"Maybe, but. He won't hurt Patrick. C'mon, dude, let's take a shower."

The shower used to be their go-to place for sex when Patrick was sleeping in their bed at night, and Stan still gets an erection from the creaky sound of the bathtub faucet turning on. He turns on the shower head and strips his shirt off, watching Kyle do the same. Kyle is softer than he was as a teenager, his running days behind him. Stan likes it, and walks forward to pinch Kyle's love handles while he unfastens his pants.

"Don't," Kyle says, looking down at his stomach. "Yuck. And you're so - firm."

"It's just from work," Stan says. He also does one hundred crunches every morning, a habit he developed when he was disabled, when he used to do them in bed. He's a little vain about his body, but it's still a miracle to him, just being able to move. He wakes up some mornings to a piercing fear that his luck will have run out, until he moves his legs and shifts his hips against Kyle, feeling everything still in place.

"What if we had another baby?" Kyle says when they're under the water together. This again annihilates Stan's sense of relaxed comfort, and he feels a twinge in his back when he goes tense. Kyle has said this before, and it bothers Stan a lot more than most of his other delusions. Patrick is getting older, and Stan worries that some part of Kyle knows that Patrick will have his own life soon, and more questions about what the hell Kyle is talking about.

"Um," Stan says. "Patrick likes being an only child, so."

"Does he? I think he's too sheltered. That's my fault, I know. I guess maybe you're right, though, it's too late now. If we had done it when he was younger, maybe- I just feel like, and I guess this is stupid, but sometimes I feel like my mother would come home if she found out she had a granddaughter."

"You want her here?" Stan asks, glancing up into Kyle's eyes. Kyle's soapy hands are moving on him, and Stan is hard, but he won't be for long if this conversation continues. It's too jarring.

"I don't know," Kyle says, and he moans. "I know she's bossy and that she'd drive me crazy. But I do miss her," he says more quietly.

Half the time, Stan slips into feeling as if it's true that Sheila is just elsewhere, or that she faked her own death the way she once faked Ike's. He prefers it when Kyle remembers that she's dead, not just because it's the truth but because that way Kyle doesn't have to feel so abandoned, as if she's off doing important political things and ignoring him to this day.

"I called your mom about coming over tonight," Kyle says, and Stan is glad for the change in subject. "She's got a shift. I'm sorry, I should have planned all of this sooner. You know how bad my memory is."

"Yes," Stan says, uncomfortable with the irony of that statement. He's never sure what Kyle means by that. He takes Kyle's face in his hands and kisses him deeply, wanting to disappear into sex for a while. They still know each other completely when it comes to how to make the other one feel good, well-tended to and loved. "Can I?" Stan asks, sliding his hand between Kyle's ass cheeks. Kyle tips his head back and grins.

"Of course," he says. "I was hoping you would."

Kyle has learned to be quiet during sex, for Patrick's sake. Stan appreciates this, though he also misses Kyle's bone shaking moans, and the way he used to shout encouragement when Stan was driving into him hard and fast. Now it's Stan who is more vocal during sex, usually because he gets emotional, murmuring reassurances into Kyle's ear.

"Do you know how much I love you?" he asks when he's inside Kyle. It's Stan's usual refrain; he can't seem to not say it. Kyle is pressed against the wall of the shower, legs spread, and Stan is behind him, fucking him slow, making it last.

"Mhmmm," Kyle says in answer, pushing his hips back.

"Tell me, Kyle, do you?" Stan really needs to hear it. This has to always be the one thing Kyle will never forget.

"I know," Kyle says. "I can feel it. Oh, Stan. You love me so much that you fuck me standing up. Even with your poor back."

"You can rub it for me later," Stan says, his heart rate spiking a bit from Kyle's use of the f-word. Kyle's doctors say that the v-chip's functionality as a censor has died off, but Stan still freezes whenever Kyle curses, thinking about the fact that Clyde was trying to open a jar of pickles when he died. He'd said 'goddammit' when the lid wouldn't budge, and the chip gave him a stroke instead of a shock. Though Stan had his chip removed almost five years ago, he never curses anymore. He's disgusted when he considers that this means the chip worked the way his parents wanted it to, but the bad words just don't feel liberating or grown-up like they did back then.

Stan is tired after showering and sex, but he knows that if he took a nap he'd be out for hours, and he'd rather just turn in early after the party. Patrick is a sandy mess, and Stan sits on the floor by the tub while he has his bath, Kyle finishing up the party prep and keeping Kenny company downstairs, though Kenny would probably be fine just lying on the couch and waiting for them to reappear.

"How old are you, Daddy?" Patrick asks, looking up from his toy boats.

"Twenty-six," Stan says. He's not sure why it's painful to admit this. Maybe because he assumed Kyle would be cured by now. It came so quickly for Stan, though at the time it had felt like an eternity. Just seven months and he was free of his wheelchair.

"I'm six," Patrick says.

"Not yet. In December."

"Well. That's soon. Right?"

"Right. Two months away."

Patrick drives the boats again for a while, his brow creasing in a way that makes Stan wait to hear what more he has to say. He looks most like Ike when he frowns. Kyle is convinced that Patrick looks like Stan, which isn't true, but they don't look particularly dissimilar either.

"Do we have to go to the graveyard this year?" Patrick asks.

"Your dad will probably want to." Stan shifts when his back tenses. He never knows what to say about Karen, except the obvious: she was Patrick's 'real' mother, and she's gone. "You don't like going there? I know it's sad. My dad is buried there, and I don't visit too often myself."

"Your dad - the guy with the mustache?" He's seen pictures. Stan nods. "Was he nice?"

"Um, yeah, he was pretty nice."

"He died in the war?"

"Yep."

Patrick is quiet again for a moment, Stan's heart feels heavy, his back aching. It always takes him off guard, how badly it hurts to remember Randy. He died just as Stan's adolescence was beginning, and they'd been clashing more often than not over little things. When Randy left for his third tour, Stan somehow hadn't considered the possibility that he might not come back that time.

"Daddy?" Patrick says.

"Yeah?"

"Are you my dad?"

"Yeah, of course," Stan says, moving closer to the tub. "In an important way, because I love you so much, and I - we'll always be here to take care of you, me and Poppy. We've talked about this, remember? Ike and your mom, Karen - they made you, you came from them."

"Poppy says-"

"I know what Poppy says, but we've talked about Poppy, too. He's sick, just a little bit, but enough that he gets confused. And we can't tell him he's wrong, because he's sick and he can't help what he thinks. Right?"

"It would be mean to tell Poppy that he's wrong," Patrick says, parroting something that Stan told him once he was old enough to sort of understand. Stan's eyes burn a little, and he nods.

"I know it's hard to understand," Stan says, and he smooths Patrick's wet hair down. "Poppy doesn't mean to make it hard, but - I know."

"Is Poppy my dad?"

"Well, yeah. Just like me. We - your - Ike was really young when he had you, just ten years older than you."

"Ten years is a lot."

"It's not, really. He needed help, too, because he was sad about your mom. He's still sad, you know, and that's why - that's how come he's, uh. Anyway, me and Kyle - Poppy - we took care of you, and now you're our baby. Right?"

"Right," Patrick says. He's looking down at the boat in his hand, a big red one. Stan's heart is beating fast, and he's nervous, like always, that he's saying the wrong thing. No one ever gave him a class in parenting, and what they're dealing with is some pretty advanced shit.

Stan helps Patrick dress for party after his bath and carries him downstairs. He doesn't need to carry Patrick as often as he does, or Kyle for that matter, but it's a thing he loves as purely as the way he loved his dog as a little boy: being able to hold someone he loves in his arms and convey them safely to a new location. It's a ridiculous fixation, but Patrick and Kyle both seem to enjoy it.

"Are you all clean?" Kyle asks when Stan sets Patrick down in the kitchen. Patrick jogs over to Kyle and gives him a hug that Kyle bends down to receive. "My sweetheart," Kyle says. He squeezes Patrick close and kisses his damp hair. "What's this for?"

"I don't know," Patrick says, still hugging Kyle. Stan distracts himself from a surge of unwanted emotion by going to the fridge. Patrick doesn't like hearing that Kyle is sick. He worries about Kyle, and tends to cling especially hard to him after being reminded. Stan can relate.

"Well, thank you," Kyle says. He hoists Patrick up onto his hip and rears away when Stan comes over to try to kiss him. "I have to confess," Kyle says. "I ate a donut."

"That's okay," Stan says, and he tries again, managing to peck Kyle on the lips this time. "Where's Kenny?"

"Oh, out in the front yard, I think. Bebe has arrived. They're having a moment."

"Ah. I'll leave them to it, then."

"No, don't! Go intrude and spy for me. I find them fascinating."

"Kyle," Stan says, though he knows what Kyle means. Maybe it's the tragedy that haunts their relationship, or the fact that Bebe is the mayor and Kenny is from South Park's least reputable family, but they have been South Park's favorite subject of gossip for years. Kenny became Bebe's 'bodyguard' shortly after Clyde died, and he seemed to be the only one who could effectively comfort her in the years afterward. Long before they were actually sleeping together, everyone prophesied that they would, some with disdain, as if Bebe should be loyal to Clyde's ghost forever. Stan is glad they have each other. After Karen died, Kenny was a husk of himself until he had Bebe's grief to distract him from his own pain.

Stan takes his beer into the foyer and peeks out the window at Kenny and Bebe. She's leaning against her car, and Kenny is standing in front of her, towering over her. She's wearing flats and a short, shapeless dress with a black cardigan. She's always got something black included in her outfits. Kenny leans down to kiss her, looking uncertain about it, and Bebe turns her lips away but holds his face against hers, stroking his blond stubble with her thumb. Feeling guilty for watching them, Stan opens the front door loudly enough to alert them to his approach. By the time he's outside they're standing two feet apart.

"Hey," he says, hugging Bebe hello. She's finally gained some weight, which is a relief. She was a waif after Clyde died, and it was especially distressing because Stan still remembers her as a warrior, how she refused to wear her jacket into battle no matter how cold it was, because it restricted her movements. When she smiles up at him, he remembers her mouth full of blood when her tooth got chipped. It's not a bad memory. Bebe had been their leader and rallying symbol on the battlefield, even before she was promoted.

"Birthday wishes," Bebe says, passing a bottle of good scotch into Stan's hands.

"Awesome," Stan says. "We'll crack this open tonight for sure."

"I can't join you," Bebe says, and she glances at Kenny, who gives her a sheepish smile. "I'm, uh. I was going to wait to tell you and Kyle together."

"You're pregnant?" Stan looks down at her belly, which is still flat. She sighs and places her hand there.

"Almost three months along," she says.

"Congratulations!" Stan is absurdly happy about this, not even sure why. He hugs Bebe again, and then Kenny, who seems to be struggling not to smile any harder than he already is.

"It's crazy," Bebe says, and she looks tearful for a moment, but she's smiling. "We wanted this, that's the big secret. We planned it."

"Good," Stan says, and he hugs her again, unable to stop himself. They've become closer since Kyle's illness and Ike's problems, and he thinks of her as his sister. He hasn't heard from Shelly since the war ended; she writes to Sharon from Europe, but not often.

"You're the godfather, okay?" Kenny says to Stan.

"Oh, God, okay. I haven't been to church since last Christmas, though." He goes with his mom once a year.

"That doesn't matter," Bebe says. "I'm an atheist, and Kenny says he's a Hindu." She gives him a skeptical glance and he grins. "It's a symbolic thing. Not a god thing."

They end up celebrating Bebe's good news just as much as Stan's birthday, which is fine by him. He's never been big on being the center of attention, and he's truly happy for Kenny and Bebe. They'll make good parents, and Patrick will have a little cousin. Gregory and Christophe arrive for dinner, and their gift for Stan is a box of expensive pears, which makes Kyle bark with laughter. He quickly apologizes and says it's very nice. Jimbo and Ned show up late, having come off shift at one of their construction jobs, still smelling like plaster. They live out on the farm now, keeping watch over it at night. Their reputation as being highly armed has cut down on plant theft.

"I think it's your bedtime, huh?" Kyle says to Patrick when the presents have been opened and the donuts consumed. It's Stan's birthday tradition to sit around the fire pit after cake and sing American songs, but he hopes they can skip it this year. He's tired, and Jimbo is the one who loves that tradition, not Stan.

"Come on," Stan says, taking Patrick from Kyle's lap, where he's been sitting since finished his second donut, looking sleepy despite all the sugar. "Say goodnight to everyone."

Stan is tucking Patrick into bed when Kyle appears in the doorway. They smile at each other, because Patrick is already mostly asleep, worn out. Stan kisses his cheek, and Kyle comes to the bed to do the same.

"Sweet dreams," Kyle says, handing Patrick his stuffed elephant. Patrick curls around it and is asleep before they leave the room. "I miss sleeping with him," Kyle whispers as they close the door.

"What about me?" Stan asks, putting his hands on Kyle's waist. "Don't you like sleeping with me?"

"Of course, dude." Kyle leans up to kiss him, and Stan kisses him back hungrily, a nervous thrill moving through him. Kyle rarely calls him dude unless he's lucid. When Stan pulls back he searches Kyle's eyes, but they aren't quite the ones that belong to the Kyle he fell in love with. Kyle looks dreamy and calm. When he's lucid, his eyes are sharp and sad, apologetic.

Kenny and Bebe leave together soon after Kenny has sampled a small amount of the scotch, and Jimbo and Ned don't last much longer downstairs, worn out from their job and anxious to start on the drive to the mountains. Kyle mentions the fire pit, which is another good sign; remembering things like that usually means a lucid period is coming. Stan waves off the fire pit idea and pulls Kyle into his lap at the kitchen table, kind of drunk and not shy about being affectionate in front of Gregory and Christophe, who are the only ones left at the party.

"I'm a little concerned about this pregnancy," Gregory says, sounding a bit drunk himself. He's become more prone to joining Christophe in overindulging. Sometimes Stan gets the feeling that Gregory wishes he could have left South Park the way Wendy did, to start a career elsewhere and see some of the world, but he can't imagine Gregory without Christophe, and Christophe talks about the world outside South Park as if he's seen enough of it for one lifetime. Christophe must be at least a little drunk himself, because he has his arm draped around Gregory's shoulders. They almost always leave Stan and Kyle's dinner table with a tipsy swivel in their steps, since they live close enough to walk home.

"I mean, in terms of Bebe's career," Gregory says. "It's awfully soon to be having children."

"Twenty-six isn't that soon," Kyle says. "God, we had Patrick when we were-" He looks to Stan, who flushes uncomfortably. "How old were we?" Kyle asks, frowning in that way that makes Stan want to stuff all the mismatched pieces back into whatever puzzle Kyle is trying to construct.

"Twenty," Stan says, because that's how old he was when Patrick was born. He can sense that Christophe and Gregory are uncomfortable with this sudden turn in the conversation, too. Kyle has been acting 'normal' all night.

"Yes, well," Gregory says, shifting under Christophe's arm. "You, ah. Aren't a political figure."

"God, no," Kyle says. "That's the last thing I ever wanted to be. My mother - well, we all know what it's done to her. I don't even know her anymore. But Bebe won't be that way. She's always been good at balancing her nurturing side with her more ambitious side."

"That kid will be so blond," Christophe says, and he scoffs as if this annoys him.

"What's wrong with blonds?" Gregory asks, turning to him. "You quite like them, last time I checked."

They give each other small, private smiles, and Stan wants to tell them to head on home if they're going to be so obvious about the fuck they'll have when they get there, but he supposes he can't complain, considering that the press of Kyle's cushy ass over his crotch is arousing him. He's almost glad when Ike wanders in to break up the awkward pause in the conversation, until he sees Ike's bloodshot, angry eyes. He seems drunk, unsteady in his steps as he heads toward the fridge.

"Don't mind me," Ike says, muttering. Stan feels terrible; he was so preoccupied with Bebe's news and opening his gifts that he forgot to bring food up for Ike.

"Excuse me," Kyle says, and Stan squeezes his thigh, willing him not to make a scene. "What are you doing? You don't have permission to dig through my fridge."

"Yeah, okay, Kyle," Ike says, his face still in the fridge. "Why don't you call the cops, then?"

"If only I could! I'm sure they're in league with whoever stationed you here."

"Ike," Stan says when he hears him scoff. "Just - Kyle, hey, it's fine. We have so much leftover food-"

"Which I had plans for! Excuse me, no, put that down."

Ike slams the fridge shut, taking a defiant bite from the chicken leg he plucked from the plate of leftovers. Kyle makes an outraged sound and stands, but Stan pulls him back into his lap.

"Please, dude," Stan says, holding Kyle against him and sensing how much Christophe and Gregory wish they could bolt and not witness this. "For my birthday, just let it go."

"Listen to your husband," Ike says, and Stan glares at him. Kyle and Stan never did get married, not for real. Kyle thinks they did, and Stan can't contradict him by insisting that they actually make it legal. He's not sure what the point would be, anyway, while Kyle is like this.

"Maybe we should-" Gregory says, standing.

"Just wait until my mother comes back," Kyle says. He's begun to tremble, and that's never a good sign. "I don't care how much power you people think you have, she'll have you out of this house one way or another. You've got no idea what she's capable of."

"No, actually, I've got a pretty good idea." Ike's eyes are watering again, and he looks insane, tearing at the chicken leg with this teeth.

"Man, don't make things worse," Christophe says, approaching Ike, who scoffs and steps away.

"Worse?" Ike says. "For who? They can't get any worse for me. Where's Patrick?" He turns to Kyle, and Stan braces himself when he sees the look on Ike's face. "Where's my kid, you crazy fucker?"

"Hey!" Stan shouts, and he sees Gregory flinch.

"Your kid?" Kyle says, shaking harder in Stan's arms, struggling to get free. He's tried to hit Ike once before, and it didn't end well. "What the hell are you talking about? Stan, let go of me! He's going to do something to Patrick! That's his – that's their real mission, that's how they think they'll get to me—"

"Look me in the face and tell me he's not mine," Ike says, and he throws the half-eaten chicken leg on the table. "Explain to me how he came out of your fucking – womb, or whatever, Kyle, tell me how Karen died for nothing because the stork brought you a baby."

"Shut up!" Stan shouts, very glad that Kenny has already gone home. "What's the point of this?"

"The point is that if you assholes weren't always walking on eggshells for him, I think he'd fucking drop this shit and act like my real brother again!"

"You're excused from the table," Christophe says, dragging Ike out of the room. Stan tenses and waits for a fist fight, but Ike dissolves into angry sniffling as he lets Christophe take him back upstairs. Gregory's face is red when Stan glances at him. Kyle has gone quiet, and his trembling is less violent.

"Dude?" Stan says, whispering this in Kyle's ear, wishing Gregory would stop staring. "Kyle? He's just – trying to mess with you, okay, he's upset—"

"I have to—" Kyle says, and he stands. When he goes for the stairs to the second floor, Stan wonders if he should stop him, but when Kyle gets quiet and vacant like this he's never looking for a fight. Kyle walks past Ike's room, where Stan can hear Ike sobbing and Christophe trying to calm him down. Stan follows Kyle into Patrick's room, relieved to see that Patrick has slept through the shouting downstairs. Stan is more worried about Ike's anguished crying waking him; it's happened before. They've tried to get Ike to visit Gerald in New York, to start a new life or at least see if he would like it there better, but he refuses to leave Patrick, though Ike's presence does little more than frighten and confuse him.

"Are you okay?" Stan asks after Kyle has climbed into bed with Patrick, lying between him and the wall with his arm draped around Patrick, who goes on sleeping. Kyle says nothing, just shuts his eyes and presses his face to Patrick's little shoulder.

Stan walks out into the hallway when he hears Ike's bedroom door open and shut. Ike has gone quiet inside, or at least quiet enough not to be heard through the wall between his bedroom and Patrick's. Christophe slaps Stan's shoulder sympathetically. Gregory is standing at the foot of the stairs, peering up at them and holding their jackets.

"Shit," Christophe says.

"Yeah," Stan says. "Thanks. And sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for, my friend. In my house, growing up, we had one of these dramas every night, and no one had a piece of metal rusting in their brain as an excuse. Is he – okay?"

"Yes. I don't know. He'll be fine."

Stan doesn't know that, and it's more tiring than he could possibly explain to anyone. He thinks about what it would have been like if Kyle had gone away to war and Stan had been the one forced to remain at home. Stan would have been consumed with worry then, too, and he did worry for Kyle while he was away, afraid Cartman would corner him and destroy anything he could get his hands on. But it was the kind of worry with specific potential outcomes: death, disability, depression. Now, he's not even sure what he should fear most.

"Everyone went home," Stan says, speaking softly as he sits on the edge of the bed and touches Kyle's hair, then Patrick's. "Thank god he's a deep sleeper," Stan says, meaning Patrick: Kyle is clearly awake. His eyes are open but heavily lidded, and he doesn't seem fully cognizant. "Right?"

"I'm going to sleep here," Kyle says.

"Alright," Stan says. "I – me too."

He stretches out on the floor by the bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Kyle's short, panicked breaths steady and sink into a rhythm that means he's asleep. The bed that Kyle and Patrick are sleeping in is the same one Stan slept in as a kid, until he was eighteen, until he left for war. The place on the floor where he's sleeping now was where Kyle slept when he stayed over, sometimes. If it was cold, or if they were having a particularly serious, whispered conversation, he would get in bed with Stan, who had always liked that better. Kyle had seemed too vulnerable on the floor, especially before the war, when Stan was young enough to vaguely fear that something nefarious might live in the darkness under his bed.

He turns his head to look there, seeing the outline of a few of Patrick's toys in the glow from the night light on the opposite wall. His back is killing him, the pain shooting all the way up to the back of his neck, but he doesn't want to go sleep downstairs, alone. It's not that he doesn't trust Kyle to take care of Patrick – he always has, and had a falling out with his mother over this shortly after Kyle was diagnosed, a hurt that hasn't quite been repaired. When he hears the phone ringing down the hall in his mother's old room, he thinks about ignoring it, but it might be her wanting to wish him a happy birthday.

"Hi." It's not his mother: it's Craig, his nasal voice singularly distinct now that Clyde is gone. "Sorry I – we missed the party. I had kind of a bad day."

"It's alright," Stan says. "I mean, I'm sorry to hear it. I understand."

"How was it?"

"Fine." Stan is surprised by the call; they see Tweek relatively frequently, but Craig has become reclusive again. While Kyle dove headfirst into the comfort of his delusions as soon as they began, Craig has resisted and is often angry about his confusion, never accepting. He's embarrassed, too, as if any part of this was his fault. There's a theory that some people who had the chip removed using the older, more dangerous method might have exacerbated the condition or even caused an otherwise harmless chip to leave behind damage, but Christophe has been fine so far. "It was kind of bad, actually," Stan says, needing to talk to someone. He sits on his mother's bed. "Kyle and Ike fought."

"Ah. That Ike is a real piece of work. We've all lost people. He acts like he's the only one who has the right to mourn."

"Mhmm."

Craig's confusion began around the time Clyde died. He still flies into a rage when he remembers, sometimes after accusing Bebe of cheating on Clyde with Kenny, which always sends her down into her own dark spiral of guilt. Tweek has developed the ability to calm him down when this happens, or so he says.

"Did Kenny bring you my gift?" Craig asks.

"No? What gift?"

"The scotch – that bastard, he kept it?"

"Oh – no, I didn't realize that was from you. Bebe gave it to me."

"Well, yes, she paid for it, but I had it special ordered for you."

"Ah, well, thanks. It was really good."

"Was it? You don't sound drunk. You should be drunk on your birthday."

"Not necessarily." Stan kind of wishes he was, but it wouldn't be a good idea. "Listen, uh. You guys should come over for dinner sometime."

"Sure," Craig says. "If we can get the monkey."

"The – what?"

Craig is silent for a moment. "What did I say?"

"Uh, something about a monkey?"

"No – shit, sorry, that's—"

"It's okay, Craig, I know—"

"I should get off the train," Craig says, and he hangs up. Stan is pretty sure he meant 'phone.' He sets the receiver back in its cradle and lies down on his mother's old bed. She's living in North Park, closer to work, and she has a boyfriend called Mike who Stan had only met a few times. He thinks about calling her, but decides he's too tired and goes back into Patrick's room to sleep on the floor.

If Kyle had been making progress toward a lucid stretch, it's been erased by Ike's outburst, and Stan hates Ike for it for a few days. Kyle is mostly quiet in the days that follow, though he cheers up and resumes his default parenting responsibilities in the presence of Patrick. Stan is on edge, but Kyle is responsive to his attempts to cuddle him at night, and Stan is glad for the cooling weather that allows them to hide together under a mound of blankets.

"We'll start having fires in here soon," Stan says on the third night after his birthday party. Kyle has always liked the comfort of their fireplace in the winter, how their den-turned-bedroom becomes newly cozy.

"Will you - will you have to go away?" Kyle asks, speaking softly and touching Stan's throat with his fingertips.

"No, dude." Stan holds him tighter, kisses his forehead. "I'll be here. Don't worry."

"Once – in winter – you went away, I think. Didn't you?"

"I was in the war, Kyle, but it's over, and I don't have to go away again. Not now, not ever. That's all over."

Kyle has no response to that but to move closer to Stan, huddling against his chest. Stan strokes his hair and his back, hoping that Kyle will want to have sex, because that's usually a sign that he's returning to himself after a period of drifting between realities, even if the self he's returning to is one of the Kyles who isn't exactly him. Kyle reaches down to place a warm hand over Stan's ass, which is clothed in boxer shorts. They haven't slept naked since the night of the party. Stan waits, still petting Kyle, and sighs when he feels Kyle drift to sleep in his arms.

In the morning, Stan wakes up feeling so fundamentally changed that he's certain for a moment that his paralysis has returned. He moves his legs, squeezes his aching morning wood, and looks over at Kyle, but that's what's missing: it's still early, barely light outside, and Kyle is not in bed.

"Kyle?" Stan says, turning toward the bathroom, but the door is open and the lights are off. He gets out of bed, knowing he shouldn't panic right away, but it's a cold morning, and their alarm won't go off for another hour. Kyle never gets up early on cold mornings.

He's not in the kitchen or the living room, and doesn't appear to be in the backyard, which has grown frosty, the windows fogged from their restored central heating. Stan checks the downstairs guest bathroom, then feels stupid for getting so worked up: of course Kyle is just upstairs, in bed with Patrick after some dream that upset him. Stan runs up the stairs anyway, not bothering to be quiet. Patrick's bedroom door is halfway open, and Stan flings it open fully, then flips on the lights when he still doesn't see Kyle.

"Daddy?" Patrick says, sitting up in bed.

"Is Poppy in here?" Stan asks, going to the closet, as if Kyle might have wedged himself in there. Stan can't really rule anything out.

"Poppy?" Patrick says, his little voice still creaky with sleep. "What's wrong with Poppy?" he asks when he sees the look on Stan's face.

"Nothing – I just – hold tight for a minute, bud."

Stan hurries into Sharon's old bedroom, then Shelly's, and checks the upstairs hall bathroom. He bursts into Ike's room when he still can't find Kyle, and Ike sits up like a shot has been fired.

"Where's Kyle?" Stan asks, trying to refrain from shouting, since Patrick is already scared.

"Huh?" Ike says. "You lost him?"

"I – he's – you watch Patrick, okay? I'm gonna go look, look for him in the neighborhood—"

Stan hears the front door open and whirls toward the stairs. Kyle is coming through the door, pink-cheeked and breathing audibly.

"Kyle!" Stan shouts, and he almost falls on his way down the stairs, grabbing the railing to steady himself. "You – are you okay, are you—"

"I'm fine," Kyle says flatly when Stan arrives in the foyer and grabs his shoulders, breathing almost as hard as Kyle is. "I went for a run."

"You – what?"

As soon as Stan is able to calm himself enough to focus on Kyle's eyes, he sees it. Kyle is lucid, he's back, and is annoyed by Stan's hysteria in an authentically Kyle way. Kyle's eyes soften a bit when he sees that Stan has recognized him.

"Hi," Stan says, his heart still thudding wildly.

"Hi. I'm going to take a shower."

"Oh - okay."

Stan lingers in the lobby feeling dumbstruck, wondering for a moment if this is a dream. He looks up to see Ike and Patrick at the top of the stairs, Ike looking deeply annoyed and Patrick clutching his stuffed elephant.

"It's okay," Stan says. "Poppy just went out to get some exercise."

"Terrific," Ike says. "Is this going to be a thing now? He thinks he's a marathon runner and disappears to train?"

"He's fine, actually," Stan says, not caring if Ike understands how he means this, exactly. "Will you please take Patrick to school this morning? I'm going to stay home from work, uh. I've got some things to do around the house." He always takes a day off when Kyle is restored to himself, not wanting to miss a moment of it, though it's often more heart wrenching than witnessing his confusion.

"What do you say?" Ike asks, looking down at Patrick. "You want to get ready for school?"

"Okay," Patrick says. He still looks a little uncertain, and Stan will talk with him later. Possibly Kyle will, too, though seeing Patrick often sends him back into his delusions. Stan has given this some dark consideration - if they were to move away from Patrick, maybe Kyle could hang on to more lucidity. It's something Sharon once said, and Stan got angry and defensive, though she didn't deserve that. Kyle's doctors have suggested that it's more likely that Patrick is a beacon that at least keeps Kyle in one version of reality most of the time, and even when he's lucid and working on a pretzel costume, Kyle loves Patrick like a son. Stan does, too, and leaving him to be raised by Sharon or Ike, if that were ever a real possibility, isn't an option.

Stan putters around the bedroom while Kyle showers, not sure if he should give him space or burst in to lather his back. He finally goes into the bathroom when Kyle has been in the shower for much longer than necessary, shedding his clothes on the way there.

"Hi," he says again as he steps into the tub behind Kyle, who has obviously been crying. Kyle tries to hide his face, busying himself with a shampoo bottle. "Can I do that?" Stan asks, hugging him from behind.

"What?" Kyle's voice is thick; it hurts to hear it, but it's also like a tonic, something real. "Wash my hair?"

"Yeah, dude. If you want, I could."

"Don't you need to get Patrick ready for school?"

"Ike's taking him." Stan flicks open the shampoo, waiting to see how Kyle will react to that news.

"Ike is capable of that? He's not too hungover or something?"

"He seems fine. Using complete sentences and everything."

Kyle is quiet while Stan washes his hair. It's ridiculous, but to Stan he always seems a bit smaller when he's lucid, as if he's shed some superhuman skin that usually protects him and this is the paler, skinnier core.

"I was terrible to him the other night," Kyle says while he's rinsing his hair out, his puffy eyes shut against the water.

"Ike was pretty awful, too. I did a sweep of his room while he was in the shower the other day, got rid of the vodka. I didn't realize he still had a stash."

"God, can you blame him for wanting to drink? With what I put him through?"

"Kyle, you-"

"I wish I could choke that stupid housewife for not remembering this one thing. Why can't he remember this one effing thing that would make our lives so much easier?"

Stan doesn't like it when Kyle refers to his delusional states as separate people. It just doesn't seem like a good sign.

"You're never a stupid housewife," Stan says, turning Kyle so that they're facing each other. "You're a good parent, even when you can't remember Ike. I think - the doctors say you probably just feel threatened by him-"

"Eff the doctors. A lot of good they've done. Oh, god, but I don't want to talk about it, Stan, really. Whenever I'm okay we spend the whole time talking about the times when I'm not okay, and I'm just tired of it. Let's talk about something else, please, anything."

"Alright," Stan says, and he reaches down to squeeze Kyle's ass with both hands. "How was your run?"

"Cold. Bracing. And let's not kid ourselves - I had to stop and walk every five minutes or so. But it felt good. I wish I could make myself do it when I'm insane, too."

"You're not insane. You know that's not the right term for it."

"Mhmm." Kyle shrugs. "I don't think terminology is going to save me, Stan. And you're changing the subject."

When Kyle was first getting sick, he spent two full weeks switching between his belief that Stan had just returned from war every time he walked into a room and his then-fledgling fixation on seeing Patrick as his and Stan's baby. The doctors who treated him initially weren't sure he would ever recover his real memories, and Stan had almost given up hope when he woke one morning to find Kyle sitting up in bed beside him, staring into space. Somehow Stan had known, even before seeing his eyes, that he was back.

"You would tell me if I'd gone crazy, wouldn't you?" Kyle said that morning, and Stan broke down, rocking Kyle in his arms, wanting to believe that he was back for good. But he'd sensed even then that it was an interlude and not a recovery.

They both get a little bit hard in the shower, but Stan isn't ready to have sex yet, and Kyle doesn't seem to be, either. Kyle climbs into bed after drying off, and Stan lights the fire, their first one of the season. He makes coffee the way Kyle likes it, with plenty of whole milk and sugar, and brings it to him in bed along with some eggs and bacon.

"Freaking bacon," Kyle says while he eats, Stan sitting next to him with his own plate. "I feel like we eat it with every meal."

"Sorry," Stan says. "I wish we had some chicken sausage or something."

"Oh, don't apologize! This is really good. God, I feel like I haven't seen you in weeks. Which is ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous." Stan puts his plate on the side table and rests his head on Kyle's shoulder, watching the fire. When Kyle returns to himself, he remembers everything that happened while he was confused, and neither of them can decide if this is a blessing or not.

"I have a weird request," Kyle says after breakfast, when the dishes are out in the kitchen sink and they're cuddled up under the blankets together, touching each other idly. Stan used to think about it when they were teenagers: what if he just reached over and touched Kyle, what would happen? He'd always been afraid that he would get an erection and that Kyle would expect him to know what to do with it.

"I'm open to weird requests," Stan says, assuming he means something sexual.

"I want to make some kind of gravestone for my mother," Kyle says. "I know it can't be public, that it would be defaced, but maybe something that only you and I know about, out in the woods somewhere. Just with her initials carved into a stone, something like that."

"Okay," Stan says, wondering if he should be alarmed by this. It's true that Sheila has no grave. "We could do that."

"And we should do it today, I think, in case I lose my mind again later. I just think - I just hate that the housewife and the other idiot don't know that she's dead. It's so embarrassing and awful, almost worse than all the nonsense about Ike. I don't think making a grave would fix this, necessarily, but I want to try it."

"Okay."

"I want to do it anyway, just for me. The real me."

They dress in warm clothes and light jackets, and Stan brings a shoulder bag with some supplies and a picnic lunch. He calls in sick to work before they leave the house, grateful as always that Token understands his home situation and allows him flexibility. The sky is clear, and some of the chill of the morning has burned off. Stan doesn't need to ask if Kyle wants to take the car. He's like Stan: he prefers to walk.

"I love this time of year," Kyle says as they head down the street, in the direction of Stark's Pond and the surrounding woods. Stan reaches over to take his hand.

"I know you do," he says, and he kisses the side of Kyle's head, unable to help himself. He's always giddy with affection when he has Kyle back and they're not just crying together over how soon he'll be gone again. "Halloween's in a week. I still can't get Patrick to tell me a costume he wants to wear."

"I hope he'll want something cute again," Kyle says. "Six has got to be one of the last years when boys are willing to be cute rather than gross and scary."

"Speak for yourself. I was Raggedy Andy at age eight."

"That's true," Kyle says, grinning. "But that was Wendy's idea, not yours. What was I, a vampire?"

"I think so, yeah. Or a clown?"

"Oh, lord. I can't believe I ever wanted to be a clown. I can certainly say now that it's not all it's cracked up to be."

"You're not a clown," Stan says, squeezing his hand. "Stop."

Kyle's dismissal of his alternate selves hurts, because they're Stan's companions, too, and there's still enough of Kyle in them for him to be happy with them, sometimes. The welcoming home from war got old fast, but Kyle isn't just a 'housewife' when he's taking care of Patrick and going about his domestic business. He's still doing things that he would have done anyway: providing a happy home life for his nephew, dealing with Ike's depression and other issues, and going to bed with Stan. He's not the same, but he's not different in any ways that really betray his sense of self, aside from his beliefs about Ike and the opportunities he missed because of the poisoning. Stan still has Kyle's notes about potential medical schools, and the notes about their wedding that are interspersed between his research. He can't let go of the idea that Kyle will need his old notebooks someday, when there's a cure for chip poisoning.

Kyle's footsteps slow before they've reached the end of the residential district, and when Stan looks to his left he sees why. The old Broflovski house is visible in the distance, just one street over. It's in disrepair, paint peeling and all the downstairs windows boarded up. No one has seen Cartman in four years, and Liane left town around the time he did, or so the rumors say. There are also rumors that Cartman is still living in Kyle's old house, holed up there with his diminishing riches. Some people say they've witnessed grocery delivery boys coming and going. Stan isn't sure what to believe. He puts his arms around Kyle while he stands staring at the house where he grew up.

"I hope he's not really in there," Kyle says. "And not for my sake, for his."

"I don't forgive him," Stan says, though Kyle knows this. "If he's in there rotting away, it's no less than he deserves."

"He was a stupid, drunk kid who thought no one loved him. He was disgusting, yes, but-"

"Kyle, stop. He knew what he was doing, and he'd probably been waiting years to try it. I can only thank God that I showed up when I did. I wish I'd come upstairs sooner. I still think about it."

"You think about it more than me, then," Kyle said, turning to smile at him. "I never told you, but I ran into him after Bebe and Clyde's wedding, in the coat room. We were both pretty drunk. He tried to intimidate me, and I just pushed him over - like it was nothing, he fell to the floor and started crying like we were kids again and I'd punched his shoulder. It was depressing, but I was never afraid of him after that."

"Jesus. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oh, you know." Kyle sighs and walks on, and Stan follows, glad to leave the sight of the house. "I didn't want you to try to confront him. He wasn't worth it at that point. I do appreciate the memory of you kicking the crap out of him up in Butters' bedroom that night. And how you held me afterward," he says, taking Stan's hand again.

"That was when I first started thinking that I wanted - I don't know, more from you," Stan says, though he's told Kyle this before. "I just wanted to pull you all the way into me. No matter how tight I held you, I couldn't get you close enough to feel like I would be able to keep you safe."

"You do keep me safe," Kyle says, his eyes on the road. "We're close enough. I'm in you, you're in me. You're my light in the dark."

"Patrick is, too," Stan says, not wanting to take all the credit.

"That's true. But you were there first."

By the time they reach the edge of the woods around the pond, they're both warm enough from the walk to remove their jackets. They spend some time looking for the right rock, which Kyle says he will know when he sees it. He wants lunch before they've found one, and they sit down together in a pine straw-filled clearing while Stan unpacks what he brought. The bread it a little stale, but the cheese is decent and the sliced ham is very good, some salty, aged stuff that Kyle got a week ago. Stan leans against a tree and pulls Kyle into his lap when they're done.

"How's your back?" Kyle asks, reaching behind Stan to touch it.

"Eh, it's okay."

"I'll rub it later. Or now?"

"I can wait, dude."

It feels so nice to have a normal afternoon together at last that Stan has halfway forgotten why they're searching for a rock by the time Kyle finds a suitable one. It's short and fat, and it looks heavy, but Kyle won't let Stan carry it while they look for a spot to erect the memorial. They find a secluded clearing in the darker part of the woods, some very old but sturdy-looking pines towering overhead. Stan takes out the hunting knife that he's never used before, an old birthday gift from Jimbo. He hands it to Kyle and watches him carve Sheila's initials in the rock: _S.S.B._

"What's the second 'S' for?" Stan asks.

"Schwartz. That was her maiden name." Kyle stands and stares down at the rock. Stan waits to hear a eulogy of some sort. "We should find some flowers," Kyle says.

There aren't many flowers growing in the woods at this time of year, but they manage a few weedy white ones and some mountain thistle. Kyle arranges the flowers, and when he stays on the ground afterward, kneeling in front of the little stone, Stan sits beside him and touches his back.

"There's a prayer," Kyle says. "Um, a Kaddish. They said one at Ike's fake funeral, but. I don't know all the words."

"That's okay," Stan says, and he wonders if he should have said so, as if he knows anything about Jewish funeral customs. "I mean, I don't think she'd mind."

"She knew she was wrong, toward the end," Kyle says. "I didn't realize it then, but looking back - it's why she stayed away from the house so much. I know there were security concerns, but I think she was also ashamed, like. Of not being able to turn back the clock or let go, because she was so committed. That was her biggest flaw, you know, that she was smart enough to know when she was wrong but too proud to admit it." Kyle looks over at Stan, and Stan moves closer to him when he sees the look on his face. "I'm like that," Kyle says, softly. "With this - my delusions, like. I feel like they're my fault, a little."

"They're not," Stan says firmly. "Kyle. It's a common condition. One in five-"

"Yes, yes, I know the statistics. And I know Craig forgets that Clyde is dead. But maybe it's because he wants to."

"I don't think it's that simple. You guys fixate on things that are important to you, that's all. And when someone dies suddenly - there's no memory, you didn't see it happen. Sheila was out of the state when she died, so it never felt that real to you. You're not being willful when you get confused, dude. Don't put that on yourself."

Kyle turns to sort of fling himself into Stan's arms, and Stan receives him gladly, holding him close. They sit there long enough for Stan to begin to feel the chill air again, the warmth he'd built up while rock hunting evaporating.

"Let's go skinny dipping," Kyle says when he sits back. "In the pond. There's no one around."

"But it'll be cold," Stan says, studying Kyle's eyes for signs that this is a slip back into his delusions.

"No, it won't! The pond doesn't get really cold until the first freeze. I mean, it won't be warm, but we can take it. We're mountain folk."

Stan hopes that someone will have appeared at the pond to thwart this plan, but there's no one there, and Kyle is pulling his shirt off before they even reach the edge of the water. He's not sure why he can't bring himself to try to talk Kyle out of this. Possibly it's because they just buried Kyle's mother, in a sense. Stan was weird after Randy died - quiet, angry, and hard, the way he was while he was disabled. Kyle put up with it gamely, while Wendy got her feelings hurt and accused him of not dealing with his grief. She was right for the most part, but Kyle was the one who knew how to handle Stan's style of mourning. Stan had been gentle with him after Randy's death, not wanting to scare him away. He'd needed Kyle so much, and if Kyle needs to go skinny dipping after making a grave for Sheila, Stan can only comply.

Kyle goes in first, shrieking at the temperature but plunging in anyway. Stan braces himself and hisses when he steps into the cold water, checking behind him to make sure no one is looking at his ass. While he's distracted, Kyle splashes over and grabs him, pulling him in fully.

"Jesus Christ, dude!" Stan says when he surfaces, and Kyle laughs, throwing his arms around Stan's neck. Despite the chill, arousal shoots down Stan's spine when Kyle's soft cock comes to rest against his belly, Kyle's legs wrapping around his back.

"We should swim," Kyle says, though he's the one clinging to Stan, his teeth already chattering. "To get our blood flowing."

"Fine," Stan says. "I'll race you to the dock."

This was their tradition as kids, and only then does Stan realize that they entered Stark's Pond at the same point where they always had back then, just far enough from the dock to make the race interesting. He lets Kyle launch off of him for a head start, because he knows he'll win. His arms are bigger from his farm work, but he realizes after he starts swimming that his back is going to be a liability. He pushes himself hard anyway, ignoring the pain, and makes it there just a hand's reach before Kyle, who curses him, laughing.

"Shhh," Stan says, though he doesn't want to spoil the moment by reminding Kyle of his chip. "Careful."

"Oh, fuck it," Kyle says, and Stan winces, but Kyle doesn't. He's still beaming. "I feel good. It's my body, my brain, and I'll do what I please with it before this fucking chip takes it back from me."

"Shh, dude, please," Stan says, drawing him under the dock, where Stan's feet find the muddy bottom of the pond, the tops of his shoulders above water. "Don't, just. Don't scare me."

"Stan," Kyle says softly, apologetically, and they kiss. Kyle tastes like murky pond water, but the press of his warm tongue makes Stan hard, and the smell of the water reminds him of summers when they were kids, young and free to shout curse words gleefully, everything ahead of them. Stan had already thought of Kyle as _his_ back then, in a way that he never would have presumed that Wendy could belong to him, even when they were dating, or when he was asking her to marry him in a fog of terror at the end of basic training. He'd wanted Wendy once, badly, but it was Kyle he'd counted on having, always.

"We'd better get out before we catch a cold," Stan says, and he's glad when Kyle agrees. They swim back to where they left their clothes, and Stan groans when Kyle bypasses them, pulling Stan into the grove of trees where they used to dry off after a swim as kids. Back then, they'd have at least been wearing their bathing suits.

"No one will see," Kyle says, murmuring this against Stan's lips in a way that gets his cock fully on board with this plan. "It's a work day," Kyle says, pulling Stan down into the sodden grass. "A school day, too. The town is ours."

Stan wants to believe that so badly that he drops down onto Kyle, spreading his legs around him shamelessly. They kiss and grind together, Stan's wet hair dripping down onto Kyle's face. If someone sees them, Stan can at least shield Kyle's body with his own, and the thought is both comforting and arousing. He comes all over Kyle's belly with a groan, burying his face against Kyle's neck. Kyle is still rubbing himself desperately against Stan's thigh, and Stan holds his hips still, crawling down to put his mouth on Kyle's flushed cock. Kyle groans as powerfully as he did when they were first experimenting on each other, and Stan takes him in as deeply as he can. Kyle shouts again when he comes, beautifully unhinged in the midst of the suburban wilderness.

It's only two in the afternoon when they get back to the house, and Stan drags out the old photo albums so they can look at them in bed, the fire rekindled, though it's not really cold enough to need one. At three o'clock there's noise from the kitchen, and Stan knows it's Ike.

"Should I talk to him?" Kyle asks, peering up from the album they were paging through. It's pictures from Kyle's bar mitzvah, Stan looking grim and much older than thirteen in all of them.

"I guess," Stan says, not wanting Kyle to leave his side. "If – you want to?"

Kyle does, apparently, and he goes out to the kitchen. Stan waits a while before joining them, still paging through the photo album. Sheila made it and sent it by mail; he remembers that. He wishes she was alive, which is something that's never happened before, though he was never glad she was dead. She would be able to do something for Kyle, he thinks, though it might be an ironic assumption. Since the rumors of Kyle's v-chip poisoning reached the general Sheila-hating public, there's been plenty of commentary on the 'poetic justice' of the Broflovski woman's own son falling prey to the decay of the chip. Stan once got into a fist fight after overhearing something like this at the grocery store, and he spent a night in jail. Bebe helped him get out of the assault charge with a thousand dollar fine and no further time served.

He goes out to the kitchen and finds Ike sniffling over a bowl of microwaved clam chowder, Kyle's hand on his shoulder. Kyle smiles at Stan and pulls out the chair beside his.

"I told him about the memorial we made," Kyle says when Stan sits beside him. He drags his chair close to Kyle's and puts an arm around his shoulders. "We'll go there soon – maybe tomorrow, if I'm still okay."

"You're always okay," Ike says tearfully, and he wipes at his face with a napkin. "Better than me, most days."

"That's not true," Kyle says, laughing unhappily. "I'd much rather be a drunk."

"Kyle!" Stan says, but Ike is grinning down at his soup.

At three thirty they drive the Cadillac to the elementary school to pick up Patrick. He was obviously expecting Ike, and Stan can't help being happy that Patrick is glad to see them instead.

"How was your day?" Kyle asks when Patrick is buckled into the backseat. Stan was worried that Kyle would transition once he saw Patrick, but he still seems like himself, so far.

"Um, good," Patrick says. "We learned the states."

"Okay," Kyle says. "What state does Grandpa live in?"

"Umm. New York!"

"Yep, well done. We'll go there someday, okay? With Ike."

"Ike," Patrick says, and Stan glances at him in the rear view mirror.

"Poppy loves Ike," Stan says. "He just forgets sometimes."

"I'm sorry I forget things," Kyle says, reaching into the backseat to take Patrick's hand. Patrick pets Kyle's wrist and nods.

"That's okay," he says. "Just don't forget me."

"Oh – baby, I couldn't!" Kyle says, and Stan is pretty sure that's true.

At home, Stan takes over the dinner arrangements, as he usually does when Kyle is okay. Kyle plays outside with Patrick until it's dark, mostly in the sandbox, then takes him upstairs for his bath. Ike lingers in the kitchen, watching Stan cook, and Stan can sense that he wants a drink, or a toke, or something. Stan can relate, and he feels badly. He wants to get the nice scotch down, but he won't do it in front of Ike.

"He feels the worst about you," Stan says while he's sautéing vegetables, Ike hovering nearby. "He wishes he could take care of you, too."

"Well," Ike says. "Wishing they could take care of me is a Broflovski tradition."

"But they – they love you, your dad—"

"I know. I'll probably – I need to go live with him, up there. I get that. I can't stay here much longer."

"You can, though," Stan says, and when Ike gives him a wry smile he feels as if he's the younger, more naïve one.

Dinner is pleasantly uneventful, with Kyle still in charge of himself and Patrick smiling like he can sense this. Stan supposes he can. Patrick's parents were both smart; Stan didn't really know Karen, but apparently she was on track to be in gifted programs before the war came and everything was whittled down to basic education. Ike, apparently, is a genius. He's more animated than usual, included in the family for once. Stan gives everyone seconds, wanting this to last, though he also wants to get to bed with Kyle before he reverts to his delusions. Sex is so heavy that it almost hurts when Kyle knows everything, but it's still better, the best.

After Patrick is tucked in and the house goes quiet, Stan says his usual private, desperate prayer for things to stay this way. Kyle is in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. The fire is renewed, and Stan is waiting in bed, hard under the blankets like a kid, guiltily hopeful. Those seven months without the ability to have sex this way have made him super conscious of how good it is, and he's pretty sure that anyone but Kyle would be exhausted by now, but Kyle waited even longer, and he always reaches between Stan's legs with a greedy smile, whispering to him about how hard he is, as if Stan can't feel it: and he can't, not completely, until Kyle recognizes his need and tells him that it's lovely, wanted, a perfect response to their closeness.

"Was I okay?" Kyle asks when he slides into bed, smelling of toothpaste. "At dinner, I mean. I didn't say anything weird or awful?"

"Nothing bad at all," Stan says, pulling Kyle onto him. "You were completely great."

"You want me to stay this way," Kyle says, hiding his face, mouthing at Stan's neck.

"Only if you want to."

"Of course I want to!"

Kyle lifts his head, and they peer at each other for a moment, Stan's thumbs moving over Kyle's hips, over the soft part, above his hipbones.

"I love you," Stan says, wishing he had something better. Kyle grins.

"I know that," he says. "My most demented, lost, irretrievable self would know that. If I thought I was an armchair, my armchair self would still think, 'well, at least Stan loves me.' And I'd feel quite accomplished and content."

"Kyle." Stan doesn't want to cry. It's not that kind of night. Kyle sees this and shushes him, kissing his face.

They have sex, and it's what they once would have referred to as 'real sex,' the kind Stan angrily obsessed over when he thought he would never be able to try it, not with Kyle, not in the way that would mean everything, as far as he could imagine. It means everything now: the way Kyle quiets his cries to protect their baby who is sleeping upstairs, and the way they look all the way into each other by the light of the fire, having known several versions of themselves, both aware that these are the real ones.

"Such a good day," Kyle says when he's curled in Stan's arms. Stan wonders if Kyle is still awake enough to realize that Stan can feel the tears that are leaking onto his bicep: not copious, but enough to make Stan's eyes wet, too.

"Really, yes," Stan says. He kisses Kyle's forehead, and moves down to kiss all over his face. "Let's, just. Let's just be glad."

"Dude, you don't have to tell me to be glad! I'm glad. I'm really glad for every day like this, and for the shitty ones, too. Shhh," he whispers when Stan flinches at the curse. "Don't worry so much. I know this thing quite well now. I know what it'll do to me, and what it won't."

Stan hopes that's true, and falls asleep worrying about it anyway. There is nothing other than his own imperfect interfaces that he would ever trust to be inside Kyle.

When he wakes, Kyle is still in his arms. Stan prods him gently, because the alarm is going off. He reaches over to silence it, and turns back to study Kyle's eyes. He's still half asleep, hard to read.

"We need to buy some apples," Kyle says, whispering this against Stan's lips as if it's very sensitive information. Stan nods, his heart sinking. The lucid period is over, for now.

"Yeah," Stan says, stroking Kyle's wild hair down, glad when it springs up defiantly. "That's a good idea."

At the breakfast table, Kyle is perfectly functional, darting around the kitchen and getting everyone what they need. Ike slinks away before the plates are cleared, obviously disheartened by Kyle's return to treating him as a Canadian oppressor. Stan can't blame Ike, but also can't forgive him for taking this so personally.

"Poppy?" Patrick says as Kyle is packing his lunch.

"Yes, darling?"

"Can I be – like Daddy was in the war? A soldier, for Halloween?"

Stan meets Kyle's eyes, and for a moment he's sure that it's the real Kyle, who knows everything. Kyle looks back to Patrick and smiles.

"Yeah, we could do that," he says. "Your grandma would be proud."

"My grandma?"

"Kyle's mommy," Stan says, and Patrick's eyes widen as if he can't imagine such a thing.

"She died a long time ago," Kyle says, twirling the bread bag shut and clamping it closed with a twist tie. "But she would have been so proud of you. I think she is, in spirit."

"Spirit?" Patrick says.

"Like your Mommy," Kyle says, and Stan's heart pounds as Kyle kisses Patrick's cheek and hands him his lunch bag. "Karen – she was sweet, like you. She'd be happy to know she had such a good boy."

Stan takes Patrick to school and then goes to work, wishing he had taken another day off. When he left the house he wasn't sure exactly what state Kyle was in. Kyle has rarely ever acknowledged Karen while also packing Patrick off to school. All day, in the fields, gathering product and trying to ignore the ache in his back, Stan wonders what he'll come home to.

By the time he's walking home, wishing he'd remembered to bring his jacket, he's open to whatever he'll find. A homecoming from war, his devoted co-parent, or the boy he fell in love with so slowly that it ripped the footing out from under him when he held a handwritten letter close to his face in grim firelight, in the dark of a quieted battlefield. Kyle has held onto him too tightly to let even the gravest of circumstances part them, and Stan once did the same, pretending to wish that he was strong enough to let Kyle go. It was a transparent, childish lie: there could be very little of Stan left and he still wouldn't want to admit that Kyle could go on without him. He knows that's true for Kyle, too, or hopes that it is, and he feels impatient to tell Kyle so. He starts running, lazily at first and then at a sprint, wanting to be home more than he wants to find out which version of Kyle will greet him there.

He's got a good feeling, the one he gets every time he jogs home instead of walking, and he won't discount it, because Kyle probably had the same feeling once, when everyone told him Stan's condition was hopeless.

This, too, will be okay, fixed somehow, eventually. It will be what they dreamed of before they even knew how to dream together. Stan runs harder, faster, knowing in his breathless dash that it's true: they will have what no one has promised them. They'll have what they've only ever promised each other, because no one else could be bolder or more certain, and whatever happens tonight, in this temporary and bearable hell, Kyle will be so happy to have him home.


End file.
